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The Seeker, byHarry Leon

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Title: The Seeker

Author: Harry Leon Wilson

Release Date: May 8, 2005 [eBook#15797]

Language: english

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Original Book Cover - 1904

My Dear, Bernal is saying good-bye!(See page 331)

THE SEEKER

BY

HARRY LEONWILSON

Author of"The Spenders"

"The Lions of the Lord," Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BYROSE CECIL O'NEILL

1904

TO

MY FRIENDWILLIAM CURTIS GIBSON

"Hath not the potterpower over the clay, ofthe same lump to makeone vessel unto honor,and another untodishonor?"—Holy Writ.

"John and Peterand Robert and Paul— God, in Hiswisdom, created

them all. John was astatesman and Peter aslave, Robert a preacherand Paul was aknave. Evil or good, asthe case might be, White or colored,or bond or free, John and Peterand Robert and Paul— God, in Hiswisdom, createdthem all." TheChemistry of

Character.

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE—The AgeOf Fable

CHAPTER I. How the Christmas Saint was Proved

II. An Old Man Faces Two WaysIII. The Cult of the Candy CaneIV. The Big House of PortentsV. The Life of Crime Is Appraised and Chosen

VI. The Garden of Truth and the Perfect FatherVII. The Superlative Cousin Bill J.

VIII. Searching the ScripturesIX. On Surviving the Idols We BuildX. The Passing of the Gratcher; and Another

XI. The Strong Person's NarrativeXII. A New Theory of a Certain Wicked Man

BOOK TWO—The Ageof Reason

CHAPTER I. The Regrettable Dementia of a Convalescent

II. Further Distressing Fantasies of a Clouded MindIII. Reason Is Again EnthronedIV. A Few LettersV. "Is the Hand of the Lord Waxed Short?"

VI. In the Folly of His Youth

BOOK THREE—TheAge of Faith

CHAPTER

I. The Perverse Behaviour of an Old Man and aYoung Man

II. How a Brother Was DifferentIII. How Edom Was Favoured of God and MammonIV. The Winning of BrowettV. A Belated Martyrdom

VI. The Walls of St. Antipas Fall at the Third BlastVII. There Entereth the Serpent of Inappreciation

VIII. The Apple of Doubt is NibbledIX. Sinful Perverseness of the Natural Woman

X. The Reason of a Woman Who Had No ReasonXI. The Remorse of Wondering Nancy

XII. The Flexible Mind of a Pleased HusbandXIII. The Wheels within Wheels of the Great MachineXIV. The Ineffective MessageXV. The Woman at the End of the Path

XVI. In Which the Mirror Is Held Up to Human NatureXVII. For the Sake of Nancy

XVIII. The Fell Finger of Calumny Seems to beAgreeably Diverted

XIX. A Mere Bit of Gossip

SCENESBOOK ONE—The Village of Edom

BOOK TWO—The SameBOOK THREE—New York

CHARACTERSALLAN DELCHER, a retiredPresbyterian clergyman.

BERNAL LINFORD}ALLAN LINFORD } his grandsons.

CLAYTON LINFORD, Their father, ofthe artistic temperament, and versatile.

CLYTEMNESTRA, Housekeeper forDelcher.

COUSIN BILL J., a man with a splendidpast.

NANCY CREALOCK, A wondering childand woman.

AUNT BELL, Nancy's worldly guide,who, having lived in Boston, has"broadened into the higher unbelief."

MISS ALVIRA ABNEY, Edom's leadingmilliner, captivated by Cousin Bill J.

MILO BARRUS, The village atheist.

THE STRONG PERSON, of the "GusLevy All-star Shamrock Vaudeville."

CALEB WEBSTER, a travelled Edomite.

CYRUS BROWETT, a New Yorkcapitalist and patron of the Church.

MRS. DONALD WYETH, anappreciative parishioner of Allan Linford.

THE REV MR. WHITTAKER, aUnitarian.

FATHER RILEY, of the Church of Rome.

List of Illustrations"'My dear, Bernal is saying good-bye!'" "She could be made to believe that only he could protect her from theGratcher" "They looked forward with equal eagerness to the day when he shouldbecome a great and good man" "He gazed long and exultingly into the eyes yielded so abjectly to his"

THE SEEKER

BOOK ONE—THEAGE OF FABLE

CHAPTER I

How the Christmas Saint wasProved

The whispering died away as they heardheavy steps and saw a line of light underthe shut door. Then a last muffled cautionfrom the larger boy on the cot.

"Now, remember! There ain't any, butdon't you let on there ain't—else he won'tbring you a single thing!

"Before the despairing soul on the trundle-bed could pierce the vulnerable heel ofthis, the door opened slowly to the broad

shape of Clytemnestra. One hand shadedher eyes from the candle she carried, andshe peered into the corner where the twobeds were, a flurry of eagerness in herface, checked by stoic self-mastery.

At once from the older boy came thesounds of one who breathes labouredly indeep sleep after a hard day. But the littlerboy sat rebelliously up, digging combativefists into eyes that the light tickled.Clytemnestra warmly rebuked him, firstsimulating the frown of the irritated.

"Now, Bernal! Wide awake! My daysalive! You act like a wild Indian's littleboy. This'll never do. Now you go right tosleep this minute, while I watch you. Lookhow fine and good Allan is." She spokelow, not to awaken the one virtuous

sleeper, who seemed thereupon to breathewith a more swelling and obtrusiverectitude.

"Clytie—now—ain't there any SantaClaus?"

"Now what a sinful question that is!"

"But is there?"

"Don't he bring you things?"

"Oh, there ain't any!" There was a sullendesperation in this, as of one done withquibbles. But the woman still palteredwretchedly.

"Well, if you don't lie down and go tosleep quicker'n a wink I bet you anythinghe won't bring you a single play-pretty."

There came an unmistakable blare of

triumph into the busy snore on the cot.

But the heart of the skeptic was sunk. Thisevasion was more disillusioning thandownright confession. A moment the littleboy regarded her, wholly in sorrow, withbig eyes that blinked alarmingly. Thencame his last shot; the final bullet whichthe besieged warrior will sometimesreserve for his own destruction. Therecould no longer be any pretense betweenthem. Bravely he faced her.

"Now—you just needn't try to keep it fromme any longer! I know there ain't any——"One tensely tragic second he paused togather himself—"It's all over town!"There being nothing further to live for, hedelivered himself to grief—to be torturedand destroyed.

Clytie set the candle on the bureau andcame to hover him. Within the pressingarms and upon the proffered bosom hewept out one of those griefs that may notbe told—that only the heart canunderstand. Yet, when the first passion ofit was spent she began to reassure him,begging him not to be misled by idlegossip; to take not even her owntestimony, but to wait and see what hewould see. At last he listened and was alittle soothed. It appeared that Santa Clauswas one you might believe in or might not.Even Clytie seemed to be puzzled abouthim. He could see that she overflowedwith belief in him, yet he could not makeher confess it in plain straight words. Themeat of it was that good children foundthings on Christmas morning which must

have been left by some one—if not bySanta Claus, then by whom? Did the littleboy believe, for example, that MiloBarrus did it? He was the village atheist,and so bad a man that he loved to spellGod with a little g.

He mused upon this while his tears dried,finding it plausible. Of course it couldn'tbe Milo Barrus, so it must be Santa Claus.Was Clytie certain some presents wouldbe there in the morning? If he wentdirectly to sleep, she was.

Hereupon the larger boy on the cot, whohad for some moments listened in forgetfulsilence, became again virtuously asleep ina public manner.

But the littler boy must yet have talk.Could the bells of Santa Claus be heard

when he came?

Clytie had known some children, ofexceptional merit, it was true, whoclaimed to have heard his bells on certainnights when they had gone early to sleep.

Why would he never leave anything for achild that got up out of bed and caught himat it? Suppose one had to get up for adrink.

Because it broke the charm.

But if a very, very good child justhappened to wake up while he was in theroom, and didn't pay the least attention tohim, or even look sidewise or anything——

Even this were hazardous, it seemed;though if the child were indeed very good

all might not yet be lost.

"Well, won't you leave the light for me?The dark gets in my eyes."

But this was another adverse condition,making everything impossible. So shechided and reassured him, tucked thecovers once more about his neck, and lefthim, with a final comment on theadvantage of sleeping at once.

When the room was dark and Clytie'sfootsteps had sounded down the hall, hecalled softly to his brother; but that wisechild was now truly asleep. So the littlerboy lay musing, having resolved to stayawake and solve the mystery once for all.

From wondering what he might receive hecame to wondering if he were good. His

last meditation was upon the Sunday-school book his dear mother had helpedhim read before they took her away with anew little baby that had never amounted tomuch; before he and Allan came toGrandfather Delcher's to live— wherethere was a great deal to eat. The name ofthe book was "Ben Holt." He rememberedthis especially because a text often quotedin the story said "A good name is rather tobe chosen than great riches." He had oftenwondered why Ben Holt should beconsidered an especially good name; andwhy Ben Holt came to choose it instead ofthe goldpiece he found and returned to theschoolmaster, before he fell sick and wassent away to the country where the merryhaymakers were. Of course, there wereworse names than Ben Holt. It was surely

better than Eygji Watts, whose sanguineparents were said to have named him withthe first five letters they drew from a hatcontaining the alphabet; Ben Holt wasassuredly better than Eygji, even had thisnot been rendered into "Hedge-hog" bycareless companions. His last confusionof ideas was a wondering if BernalLinford was as good a name as Ben Holt,and why he could not remember havingchosen it in preference to a goldpiece.Back of this, in his fading consciousnesswas the high-coloured image of a candycane, too splendid for earth.

Then, far in the night, as it might haveseemed to the little boy, came the step ofslippered feet. This time Clytie, satisfyingherself that both boys slept, set down her

candle and went softly out, leaving thedoor open. There came back with her onebearing gifts—a tall, dark old man, with aface of many deep lines and severe set,who yet somehow shed kindness, as if heheld a spirit of light prisoned within hisdarkness, so that, while only now and thencould a visible ray of it escape through thesombre eye or through a sudden winningquality in the harsh voice, it neverthelessradiated from him sensibly at all times, tobelie his sternness and puzzle those whofeared him.

Uneasy enough he looked now as Clytieunloaded him of the bundles and bulkytoys. In a silence broken only by theirbreathing they quickly bestowed the gifts—some in the hanging stockings at the

fire-place, others beside each bed, inchairs or on the mantel.

Then they were in the hall again, the doorclosed so that they could speak. The oldman took up his own candle from a standagainst the wall.

"The little one is like her," he said.

"He's awful cunning and bright, but Allanis the handsomest. Never in my born daysdid I see so beautiful a boy."

"But he's like the father, line for line."There was a sudden savage roughness inthe voice, a sterner set to the shaven upperlip and straight mouth, though he stillspoke low. "Like the huckstering, godlessfiddle-player that took her away from me.What a mercy of God's he'll never see her

again—she with the saved and he—what areckoning for him when he goes!"

"But he was not bad to let you take them."

"He boasted to me that he'd not have doneit, except that she begged him with her lastbreath to promise it. He said the wordswith great maudlin tears raining down hisface, when my own eyes were dry!"

"How good if you can leave them both inthe church, preaching the word where youpreached it so many years!"

"I misdoubt the father's blood in them—atleast, in the older. But it's late. Goodnight, Clytie—a good Christmas to you."

"More to you, Mr. Delcher! Good night!"

CHAPTER II

An Old Man Faces Two Ways

His candle up, he went softly along thewhite hallway over the heavy red carpet,to where a door at the end, half-open, lethim into his study. Here a wood fire at thestage of glowing coals made a searchingwarmth. Blowing out his candle, he seatedhimself at the table where a shaded lampcast its glare upon a litter of books andpapers. A big, white-breasted gray catyawned and stretched itself from thehearthrug and leaped lightly upon him withgreat rumbling purrs, nosing its head under

one of his hands suggestively, and, whenhe stroked it, looking up at him with lazilyfalling eye-lids.

He crossed his knees to make a better lapfor the cat, and fell to musing backwardinto his own boyhood, when the ChristmasSaint was a real presence. Then he cameforward to his youth, when he had obeyedthe call of the Lord against his father'sexpress command that he follow thefamily way and become a prosperousmanufacturer. Truly there had been revoltin him. Perhaps he had never enoughconsidered this in excuse for his owndaughter's revolt.

Again he dwelt in the days when he hadpreached with a hot passion such truth aswas his. For a long time, while the old

clock ticked on the mantel before him andthe big cat purred or slept under his absentpettings, his mind moved through anincident of that early ministry. Clear in hismemory were certain passages of firefrom the sermon. In the little log church atEdom he had felt the spirit burn in him andhe had movingly voiced its warnings ofthat dread place where the flames foreverblaze, yet never consume; where criesever go up for one drop of water to coolthe parched tongues of those who soughtnot God while they lived. He had told ofone who died—one that the world calledgood, a moral man—but not a Christian;one who had perversely neglected the wayof life. How, on his death-bed, this onehad called in agony for a last glass ofwater, seeming to know all at once that he

would now be where no drop of watercould cool him through all eternity.

So effective had been his putting of thisthat a terrified throng came forward at hiscall for converts.

The next morning he had ridden awayfrom Edom toward Felton Falls to preachthere. A mile out of town he had beenaccosted by a big, bearded man who hadyet a singularly childish look—who urgedthat he come to his cabin to minister to asick friend. He knew the fellow for onethat the village of Edom called "daft" or"queer," yet held to be harmless—to berather amusing, indeed, since he could beprovoked to deliver curious haranguesupon the subject of revealed religion. Heremembered now that the man's face had

stared at him from far back in the churchthe night before—a face full of theliveliest terror, though he had not beenamong those that fled to the mercy-seat.Acceding to the man's request, hefollowed him up a wooded path to hiscabin. Dismounting and tying his horse, heentered and, turning to ask where the sickman was, found himself throttled in thegrasp of a giant.

He was thrust into an inner room,windowless and with no door other thanthe one now barred by his chucklingcaptor. And here the Reverend AllanDelcher had lain three days and two nightscaptive of a madman, with no food andwithout one drop of water.

From the other side of the log partition his

captor had declared himself to be thekeeper of hell. Even now he could hearthe words maundered through the chinks:"Never got another drop of water for amillion years and still more, and him aburning up and a roasting up, and histongue a lolling out, all of a sizzle. Nowwasn't that fine—because folks said he'dlikely gone crazy about religion!"

Other times his captor would declarehimself to be John the Baptist makingstraight the paths in the wilderness. Againhe would quote passages of scripture,some of them hideous mockeries to thetortured prisoner, some strangely soothingand suggestive.

But a search had been made for themissing man and, quite by accident, they

had found him, at a time when it seemed tohim his mind must go with his captor's.His recovery from the physical blight ofthis captivity had been prompt; but therewere those who sat under him whoinsisted that ever after he had beenpalpably less insistent upon the feature ofdivine retribution for what might be calledthe merely technical sins of heterodoxy.Not that unsound doctrine was ever somuch as hinted of him; only, as onceaverred a plain parishioner, "He seemedto bear down on hell jest a lee-tle lesscontinuously."

As for his young wife, she had ever afterprofessed an unconquerable aversion forthose sermons in which God's punishmentof sinners was set forth; and this had

strangely been true of their daughter, bornbut a little time after the father's releasefrom the maniac's cabin. She had grown towomanhood submitting meekly to an ironrule; but none the less betraying an acuterepugnance for certain doctrines preachedby her father. It seemed to the old man along way to look back; and then a longway to come forward again, past the deathof his girl-wife while their child was stilltender, down to the amazing iniquity ofthat child's revolt, in her thirty-first year.Dumbly, dutifully, had she submitted to allhis restrictions and severities, stonilywatching her girlhood go, through afading, lining and hardening of herprettiness. Then all at once, with no wordof pleading or warning, she had done themonstrous thing. He awoke one day to

know that his beloved child had goneaway to marry the handsome, swaggering,fiddle-playing good-for-nothing who hadthat winter given singing lessons in thevillage.

Only once after that had he looked uponher face— the face of a withered sprite,subdued by time. The hurt of that look wasstill fresh in him, making his mind turnheavily, perhaps a little remorsefully, tothe two little boys asleep in the westbedroom. Had the seed of revolt been inher, from his own revolt against hisfather? Would it presently bear some uglyfruit in her sons?

From a drawer in the table he took a littlesheaf of folded sheets, and read again thelast letter that had come from her; read it

not without grim mutterings and obliquelittle jerks of the narrow old head, yetwith quick tender glows melting thesternness.

"You must not think I have ever regrettedmy choice, though every day of my life Ihave sorrowed at your decision not to seeme so long as I stayed by my husband.How many times I have prayed God toremind you that I took him for better orworse, till death should us part."

This made him mutter.

"Clayton has never in his life failed ofkindness and gentleness to me"—so ranthe letter—"and he has always providedfor us as well as a man of his uncommontalents could."

Here the old man sniffed in fine contempt.

"All last winter he had quite a class toteach singing in the evening and three day-scholars for the violin, one of whom paidhim in hams. Another offered to pay eitherin money or a beautiful portrait of me inpastel. We needed money, but Claytonchose the portrait as a surprise to me. Attimes he seems unpractical, but now hehas started out in business again—"

There were bitter shakings of the headhere. Business! Standing in a buggy atstreet-corners, jauntily urging a crowd tobuy the magic grease-eradicator,toothache remedy, meretricious jewelry,what not! first playing a fiddle androllicking out some ribald song to fetchthem. Business indeed! A pretty business!

"The boys are delighted with the Biblesyou sent and learn a verse each day. I havetold them they may some day preach asyou did if they will be as good men as youare and study the Bible. They try to preachlike our preacher in the cunningest way. Iwish you could see them. You would lovethem in spite of your feeling against theirfather. I did what you suggested tostimulate their minds about the Scriptures,but perhaps the lesson they chose to writeabout was not very edifying. It does notseem a pretty lesson to me, and I did notpick it out. They heard about it at Sabbath-school and had their papers all written asa surprise for me. Of course, Bernal's isvery childish, but I think Allan's paper, fora child of his age, shows a grasp ofreligious matters that is truly remarkable.

I shall keep them studying the Bible daily.I should tell you that I am now lookingforward with great joy to——"

With a long sigh he laid down the finelywritten sheet and took from the sheaf thetwo papers she had spoken of. Then whilethe gale roared without and shook hiswindow, and while the bust of JohnCalvin looked down at him from the book-case at his back, he followed his twograndsons on their first incursion into thedomain of speculative theology.

He took first the paper of the older boy,painfully elaborated with heavy, intricatecapitals and headed "Elisha and theWicked Children—by Mr. Allan DelcherLinford, Esquire, aged nine years and sixmonths."

"This lesson," it began, "is to teachus to love God and the prophets orelse we will likely get into trouble. Itsays Elisha went up from Bethel andsome children came out of the cityand said go up thou Baldhead. Theysaid it Twice one after the other andso Elisha got mad right away andturned around and cursed them goodin the name of the Lord and so 2 SheBears come along and et up 42 ofthem for Elisha was a holy prophet ofGod and had not ought to of beenyelled at. So of course the motherswould Take on very much When theyfound their 42 Children et up but Ithink that we had ought to learn from

this that these 42 Little ones was notthe Elected. It says in our catchismGod having out of his mere goodpleasure elected some to everlastinglife. Now God being a Presbiterianwould know these 42 little ones hadnot been elected so they might aswell be et up by bears as anythingelse to show forth his honour andglory Forever Amen. It should teacha Boy to be mighty carful aboutkidding old men unless he is aPresbiterian. I spelled every word inthis right.

Mr.Allan Delcher Linford."

The second paper, which the old man nowheld long before him, was partly printedand partly written with a lead-pencil,whose mark was now faint and nowheavy, as having gone at intervals to thewriter's lips. As the old man read, his facelost not a little of its grimness.

"Bears

"It teaches the lord thy God isbaldheaded. I ask my deer fatherwhat it teeches he said it teeches whoever wrot that storry wasbaldheaded. He says a man with thiklong hair like my deer father wouldof said o let the kids have their funwith old Elisha so I ask my deer

mother who wrot this lesson she saidGod wrot the holy word so that ishow we know God is baldheaded. Itwas a lot of children for only two 2bears. I liked to of ben there if thebears wold of known that I was agood child. mabe I cold of ben on ahigh fense or up a tree. I climd thesor aple tree in our back yard esy.

ByBernal Linford, aged neerly 8 yrs."

Carefully he put back both papers with themother's letter, his dark face showing allits intricate net-work of lines in a tensionthat was both pained and humorous.

Two fresh souls were given to his care to

be made, please God, the means of graceby which thousands of other souls mightbe washed clean of the stain of originalsin. Yet, if revolt was there—revolt likehis daughter's and like his own? Would heforgive as his own father had forgiven,who had called him back after many yearsto live out a tranquil old age on the fortunethat father's father had founded? He musedlong on this. The age was lax—true, butGod's law was never lax. If one wouldrevolt from the right, one must suffer. Forthe old man was one of the few last of arace of giants who were to believe alwaysin the Printed Word.

CHAPTER III

The Cult of the Candy Cane

When the littler boy looked fairly into thefrosty gray of that Christmas morning, thetrailed banner of his faith was snatchedonce more aloft; and in the breast of hiscomplacent brother there swelled theconviction that one does ill to flaunt one'sskepticism, when the rewards of belief aresubstantial and imminent. For before themwas an array of gifts such as neither hadever looked upon before, save asforbidden treasure of the few personswhose immense wealth enables them to

keep toy-shops.

The tale of the princely Saint was nowauthenticated delightfully. That which hadmade him seem unreal in moments ofspiritual laxity—the impenetrable secrecyof his private life—was now seen toenhance manyfold his wondrous givings.Here was a charm which could never havesat the display before them had it beendryly bought in their presence from one ofthe millionaire toy-shop keepers. For awondering moment they looked from theirbeds, sputtering, gibbering, gasping, withcautious calls one to the other. Thenhaving proved speech to be nodisenchantment they shouted and laughedcrazily. There followed a scramble fromthe beds and a swift return from the cold,

each bearing such of the priceless bits ashad lain nearest. And while these werefondled or shot or blown upon or tasted orwound up, each according to its wonderfulnature, they looked farther afield seeingother and ever new packages bulkmysteriously into the growing light;bundles quickening before their eyes withevery delight to be imagined of a Saintwith epicurean tastes and prodigal habits— bundles that looked as if a mere twitchat the cord would expose their hiddencharms.

The littler boy now wore a unique fur capthat let down to cover the neck and face,with openings wonderfully contrived forthe eyes, nose and mouth—an easytriumph, surely, over the deadliest cold

known to man. In one hand he flourished abrass-handled knife with both of its bladesopen; with the other he clasped a stripedtrumpet, into the china mouthpiece ofwhich he had blown the shreds of acaramel, not meaning to; and here he wasmade to forget these trifles by discoveringat the farther side of the room a veritablerocking-horse, a creature that looked notonly magnificently willing, but superblyuntamable, with a white mane and tail ofcelestial flow, with alert, pointed ears ofmaroon leather nailed nicely to the rightspot. At this marvel he stared in thatsilence which is the highest power of joy:a presentiment had been his that such ahorse, curveting on blue rockers, wouldbe found on this very morning. Two daysbefore had he in an absent moment beheld

a vision of this horse poised near the doorof the attic; but when he ran to make reportof it below, thinking to astound people byhis power of insight, Clytemnestra,bidding him wait in the kitchen where shewas baking, had hurried to the spot andfound only some rolls of blue cambric.She had rather shamed him for giving hersuch a start. A few rolls of shiny bluecambric against a white wall did not, sheassured him, make a rocking-horse; and,what was more, they never would. Nowthe vision came back with a significancethat set him all a-thrill. Next time Clytiewould pay attention to him. He laughed tothink of her confusion now.

But here again, at the very zenith of ashout, was he frozen to silence by a vision

—this time one too obviously of noponderable fabric. There in the corner,almost at his hand, seemed to be a thingthat he had dreamed of possessing onlyafter he entered Heaven—a candy cane:one of fearful length, thick of girth, vast ofcrook, and wide in the spiral stripe thatseemed to run a living flame before hisravished eyes, beginning at the bottom andwinding around and around the wholedizzy height. Fearfully in nerve-bracedsilence he leaned far out of his bed tobring against this amazing apparition onecool, impartial forefinger of skepticresearch. It did not vanish; it resisted histouch. Then his heart fainted with rapture,for he knew the unimagined had becomehistory.

Standing before the windows of the great,he had gazed long at these creations. Theywere suspended on a wire across thewindow in various lengths, from littleones to sizes too awesome to compute. Onone occasion so long had he stoodmotionless, so deep the trance of hiscontemplation, that the winter cold hadcruelly bitten his ears and toes. He had notsupposed that these things were for merevulgar ownership. He had known of boyswho had guns and building-blocks androcking-horses as well as candy in thelesser degrees; but never had he known,never had he been able to hear of one whohad owned a thing like this. Indeed, amongthe boys he knew, it was believed thatthey were not even to be seen save ontheir wire at Christmas time in the

windows of the rich. One boy had hintedthat the "set" would not be broken even ifa person should appear with moneyenough to buy a single one. And herebefore him was the finest of them all,receding neither from his gaze or histouch, one as long as the longest of whichHeaven had hitherto vouchsafed him achilling vision through glass; here was thesame fascinating union of transcendentmerit with a playful suggestion ofdownright utility. And he had blurted outto Clytie that the news of there being noSanta Claus was all over town! He wasashamed, and the moment became for himone of chastening in which he humbled hisunbelieving spirit before this symbol of amore than earthly goodness—a symbol inwhose presence, while as yet no accident

had rendered it less than perfect, he wouldnever cease to feel the spiritual uplift ofone who has weighed the fruits of faithand found them not wanting.

He issued from some bottomless stupor ofecstacy to hear the door open to Allan'sshouts; then to see the opening nicelyfilled again by the figure of Clytemnestra,who looked over at them with eager,shining eyes. He was at first powerless todo more than say "Oh, Clytie!" with littleimpotent pointings toward the candy cane.But the action now in order served torestore him to a state of working sanity.There was washing and dressing afterClytie had the fire crackling; the forgettingof some treasures to remember others; andthe conveyance of them all down stairs to

the big sitting-room where the sun came inover the geraniums in the bay-window,and where the Franklin heater made the airtropic. The rocking-horse was led andpushed by both boys; but to Clytie'sresponsible hand alone was intrusted themore than earthly candy cane.

Downstairs there was the grandfather togreet— erect, fresh-shaven, flashing kindeyes from under stern brows. He seemedto be awkwardly pleased with theirpleasure, yet scarce able to be one withthem; as if that inner white spirit of hisfluttered more than its wont to be free, yetfound only tiny exits for its furtive flashesof light.

Breakfast was a chattering and explosivemeal, a severe trial, indeed, to the

patience of the littler boy, who decidedthat he wished never to eat breakfastagain. During the ten days that he had beena member of the household a certainformality observed at the beginning ofeach meal had held him in abjectfascination, so that he looked forward to itwith pleased terror. This was that, whenthey were all seated, there ensued a pauseof precisely two seconds—no more andno less—a pause that became awful byreason of the fact that every one grewinstantly solemn and expectant—evenapprehensive. His tingling nerves haddefined his spine for him before this pauseended, and then, when the roots of his hairbegan to crinkle, his grandfather wouldsuddenly bow low over his plate andrumble in his head. It was very curious

and weirdly pleasurable, and it lasted oneminute. When it ceased the tension relaxedinstantly, and every one was friendly andcordial and safe again.

This morning the little boy was actuallyimpatient during the rumble, so eager washe to talk. And not until he had beenassured by both his grandfather and Clytiethat Santa Claus meant everything he leftto be truly kept; that he came back fornothing—not even for a cane—of anykind—that he might have left at a certainhouse by mistake—not until then would heheave the sigh of immediate security andconsent to eat his egg and muffins, ofwhich latter Clytie had to bring hot onesfrom the kitchen because both boys had letthe first plate go cold. For Clytie, like

Grandfather Delcher, was also one of thelast of a race of American giants—in hercase a race preceding servants, that calleditself "hired girls"—who not only ate withthe family, but joyed and sorrowed with itand for long terms of years was a part of itin devotion, responsibility and self-respect. She had, it is true, dreaded thecoming of these children, but from themoment that the two cold, subdued littlefigures had looked in doubting amazementat the four kinds of preserves and threekinds of cake set out for their firstcollation in the new home, she hadrejoiced unceasingly in a vicariousmotherhood.

Within an hour after breakfast themorning's find had been examined,

appraised, and accorded perpetual rank bymerit. Grandfather Delcher made but onetimid effort to influence decisions.

"Now, Bernal, which do you like best ofall your presents?" he asked. With a hearttoo full for words the littler boy hadpointed promptly but shyly at his candycane. Not once, indeed, had he been ableto say the words "candy cane." It was acreation which mere words wereinadequate to name. It was a presence tobe pointed at. He pointed again firmlywhen the old man asked, "Are you quitecertain, now, you like it best of all?"—suggestively—"better than this fine bookwith this beautiful picture of Joseph beingsold away by his wicked brothers?"

The questioner had turned then to the older

boy, who tactfully divined that a differentanswer would have pleased the old manbetter.

"And what do you like best, Allan?"

"Oh, I like this fine and splendid bookbest of all!" —and he read from the title-page, in the clear, confident tones of thepupil who knows that the teacher's favourrests upon him—"'From Eden to Calvary;or through the Bible in a year with ourboys and girls; a book of pleasure andprofit for young persons on SabbathAfternoon. By Grandpa Silas Atterbury,the well-known author and writer foryoung people."

His glance toward his brother at the closewas meant to betray the consciousness ofhis own superiority to one who dallied

sensuously with created objects.

But the unspiritual one was riding the newhorse at a furious gallop, and the glance ofreproof was unnoted save by the old man—who wondered if it might be by anyabsurd twist that the boy most like thegodless father were more godly than theone so like his mother that every note ofhis little voice and every full glance of hisbig blue eyes made the old heart flutter.

In the afternoon came callers from the nexthouse; Dr. Crealock, rubicund and portly,leaning on his cane, to pass the word ofseasonable cheer with his old friend andpastor; and with him his tiny niece to greetthe grandchildren of his friend. TheDoctor went with his host to the study onthe second floor, where, as a Christmas

custom, they would drink some Madeira,ancient of days, from a cask prescribedand furnished long since by the doctor.

The little boy was for the moment leftalone with the tiny niece; to starecuriously, now that she was close, at oneof whom he had caught glimpses in awindow of the big house next door. Shewas clad in a black velvet cloak andhood, with pink satin next her face insidethe hood, and she carried a large closely-wrapped doll which she affected to thinkmight have taken cold. With great self-possession she doffed her cloak andovershoes; then slowly and tenderlyunwound the wrappings of the doll, talkingmeanwhile in low mothering tones, andgoing with it to the fire when she had it

uncloaked. Of the boy who stared at hershe seemed unconscious, and he could dono more than stand timidly at a littledistance. An eye-flash from the maid mayhave perceived his abjectness, for shesaid haughtily at length, "I'm astonished noone in this house knows where Clytie is!"

He drew nearer by as far as he couldslowly spread his feet twice.

"I know—now—she went to get twoglasses from the dresser to take to mygrandfather and that gentleman." He feltvoluble from the mere ease of the answer.But she affected to have heard nothing,and he was obliged to speak again.

"Now—why, I know a doll that shuts upher eyes every time she lies down."

The doll at hand was promptly extendedon the little lap and with a click went intosudden sleep while the mother rocked it.He could have ventured nothing more afterthis pricking of his inflated little speech.A moment he stood, suffering moderately,and then would have edged cautiouslyaway with the air of wishing to go, only atthis point, without seeming to see him, shechirped to him quite winningly in a soft,warm little voice, and there was free talkat once. He manfully let her tell of all hersilly little presents before talking of hisown. He even listened about the doll,whose name Santa Claus had thoughtfullypainted on the box in which she came; itwas a French name, "Fragile."

Then, being come to names, they told their

own. Hers, she said, was Lillian May.

"But your uncle, now—that gentleman—hecalled you Nancy when you came in." Hewaited for her solving of this.

"Oh, Uncle Doctor doesn't know it yet,what my real name is. They call meNancy, but that's a very disagreeablename, so I took Lillian May for my realname. But I tell very few persons," sheadded, importantly. Here he was at home;he knew about choosing a good name.

"Did you give up the gold-piece youfound?" he asked. But this puzzled her.

"'A good name is rather to be chosen thangreat riches,'" he reminded her. "Didn'tyou find a gold-piece like Ben Holt did?"

But it seemed she had never found

anything. Indeed, once she had lost a dime,even on the way to spending it for fivecandy bananas and five jaw-breakers.Plainly she had chosen her good namewithout knowing of the case of Ben Holt.Then he promised to show her somethingthe most wonderful in all the world, whichshe would never believe without seeing it,and led her to where the candy canetowered to their shoulders in its corner.He saw at once that it meant less to herthan it did to him.

"Oh, it's a candy cane!" she said, calling ita candy cane commonly, with not even ahush of tone, as one would say "a brickhouse" or "a gold watch," or anything.She, promptly detecting hisdisappointment at her coldness, tried to

simulate the fervour of an initiate, but thismay never be done so as to deceive anyone who has truly sensed the occult andincommunicable virtue of the candy cane.For one thing, she kept repeating thewords "candy cane" baldly, whenever shecould find a place for them in her soullesspraise; whereas an initiate would not oncehave uttered the term, but would havelooked in silence. Another initiate, equallysilent by his side, would have known himto be of the brotherhood. Perhaps at theend there would have been respectfulwonder expressed as to how long it wouldstay unbroken and so untasted. Still hewas not unkind to her, except in waysrequisite to a mere decent showing forthof his now ascertained superiority. Hehelped her to a canter on the new horse;

and even pretended a polite andsuperficial interest in the doll, Fragile,which she took up often. Being a girl, shehad to be humoured in that manner. Butany boy could see that the thing went tosleep by turning its eyes inside out, and itsgarters were painted on its fat legs.These things he was, of course, too muchthe gentleman to point out.

When the Doctor and his host came downstairs late in the afternoon, the little boyand girl were fairly friendly. Only therewas talk of kissing at the door, started bythe little girl's uncle, and this the little boyof course could not consider, even thoughhe suddenly wished it of all things—for hehad never kissed any one but his fatherand mother. He had told Clytie it made

him sick to be kissed. Now, when the littlegirl called to him as if it were the simplestthing in the world, he could not go. Andthen she stabbed him by falsely kissing thecomplacent Allan standing by, whothereupon smirked in sickeningdeprecation and promptly rubbed hischeek.

Not until the pair were out in the street didhis man-strength come back to him, andthen he could only burn with indignation ather and at Allan. He wondered that no onewas shocked at him for feeling as he did.But, as they seemed not to notice him, herode his horse again. No mad gallop now,but a slow, moody jog—a pace ripe forany pessimism.

"Clytie!" he called imperiously, after a

little. "Do you think there's a real bone inthis horse—like a regular horse?"

Clytie responded from the dining-roomwith a placid "I guess so."

"If I sawed into its neck, would the saw goright into a real bone?"

"My suz! what talk! Well?"

"I know there ain't any bone in there, likea regular horse. It's just a wooden bone."

Nor was this his last negative thought ofthe day. It came to him then and there withcruel, biting plainness, that no one else inthe house felt as he did toward his chieftreasure. Allan didn't. He had spent hardlya moment with it. Clytie didn't; he hadseen her pick it up when she dusted thesitting-room; there was sacrilege in her

very grasp of it; and his grandfatherseemed hardly to know of its existence.The little girl who had chosen the goodname of Lillian May might have beenexcused; but not these others. If hisgrandfather was without understanding insuch a matter, in what, then, could he betrusted?

He descended to a still lower planebefore he fell asleep that night. Even if hehad one of them, he would probably neverhave a whole row, graduated from apigmy to a mammoth, to hang on a wireacross the front window, after the mannerof the rich, and dazzle the outer world intoenvy. The mood was but slightlychastened when he remembered, as henow did, that on last Christmas he had

received only one pretentious candyrooster, falsely hollow, and a veryuninteresting linen handkerchiefembroidered with some initials not hisown. He fell asleep on a brutal reflectionthat the cane could be broken accidentallyand eaten.

CHAPTER IV

The Big House of Portents

In this big white house the little boys hadbeen born again to a life that was allstrange. Novel was the outer house withits high portico and fluted pillars, its vastareas of white wall set with shutters ofrelentless green; its stout, red chimneys;its surprises of gabled window; its bigfront door with the polished brass knockerand the fan-light above. Quite as novelwas the inner house, and quite as novelwas this new life to its very center.

For one thing, while the joy of living had

hitherto been all but flawless for the littleboys, the disadvantages of being deadwere now brought daily to their notice. Inmorning and evening prayer, in formalhomily, informal caution, spontaneouswarning, in the sermon at church, and thelesson of the Sabbath-school, was theirexcessive liability to divine wrathimpressed upon them "when the memory iswax to receive and marble to retain."

Within the home Clytie proved to be anable coadjutor of the old man, who was,indeed, constrained and awkward in thepresence of the younger child, and perhapsa thought too severe with the elder. ButClytie, who had said "I'll make my own ofthem," was tireless and not withoutingenuity in opening the way of life to

their little feet.

Allan, the elder, gifted with a distincttalent for memorising, she taught manyinstructive bits chosen from the scrap-book in which her literary treasures werepreserved. His rendition of a passagefrom one of Mr. Spurgeon's sermonsbecame so impressive under her drillingthat the aroma of his lost youth stole backto the nostrils of the old man while helistened.

"There is a place," the boy would declaimloweringly, and with fitting gesture, withhypnotic eye fastened on the coweringBernal, "where the only music is thesymphony of damned souls. Wherehowling, groaning, moaning, and gnashingof teeth make up the horrible concert.

There is a place where demons fly swiftas air, with whips of knotted burning wire,torturing poor souls; where tongues on firewith agony burn the roofs of mouths thatshriek in vain for drops of water—thatwater all denied. When thou diest, OSinner——"

But at this point the smaller boy usuallybecame restless and would have to go tothe kitchen for a drink of water. Alwayshe became thirsty here. And he wouldlinger over his drink till Clytie called himback to admire his brother in the closingperiods.

—"but at the resurrection thy soul will beunited to thy body and then thou wilt havetwin hells; body and soul will betormented together, each brimful of agony,

the soul sweating in its utmost pores dropsof blood, thy body from head to footsuffused with pain, thy bones cracking inthe fire, thy pulse rattling at an enormousrate in agony, every nerve a string onwhich the devil shall play his diabolicaltune of hell's unutterable torment."

Here the little boy always listened at hiswrist to know if his pulse rattled yet, andfelt glad indeed that he was aPresbyterian, instead of being in thatdreadful place with Jews and Papists andMilo Barrus, who spelled God with alittle g.

As to his own performance, Clytie foundthat he memorised prose with greatdifficulty. A week did she labour to teachhim one brief passage from a lecture of

Francis Murphy, depicting the fate of thedrunkard. She bribed him to fresh effortwith every carnal lure the pantry afforded,but invariably he failed at a point wherethe soul of the toper was going "down—down—DOWN—into the bottomlessdepths of HELL!" Here he became pitifulin his ineffectiveness, and Clytie had atlast to admit that he would never be theelocutionist Allan was. "But, my Land!"she would say, at each of his failures, "ifyou only could do it the way Mr. Murphydid—and then he'd talk so plain andnatural, too,—just like he was associatingwith a body in their own parlour—and sopathetic it made a body simply bawl. Mysuz! how I did love to set and hear thatman tell what a sot he'd been!"

However, Clytie happily discovered thatthe littler boy's memory was moretenacious of rhyme, so she successfullytaught him certain metrical conceits thathad been her own to learn in girlhood,beginning with pithy couplets such as:

"Xerxes the Greatdid die And so must you andI."

"As runs the glass Man's life mustpass."

"Thy life to mend God's book attend."

From these it was a step entirelypracticable to longer warnings, one of her

favourites being:

Uncertainty Of Life

"I in the burying-place may see Graves shorterthere than I. From Death's arrestno age is free, Young children,too, may die.

"My God, may suchan awful sight Awakening be tome; Oh, that by earlygrace, I might

For death preparedbe!"

She was not a little proud of Bernal theday he recited this to Grandfather Delcherwithout a break, though he began thesecond stanza somewhat timidly, becauseit sounded so much like swearing.

Nor did she neglect to teach both boys thelessons of Holy Writ.

Of a Sabbath afternoon she would readhow God ordered the congregation tostone the son of Shelomith for blasphemy;or, perhaps, how David fetched the Ark ofthe Covenant from Kirjath-jearim on anew cart; and of how the Lord "made abreach" upon Uzza for wickedly putting

his hand upon the Ark to save it when theoxen stumbled. The little boys were muchimpressed by this when they discovered,after questioning, exactly what it meant toUzza to have "a breach" made upon him.The unwisdom of touching an Ark of theCovenant, under any circumstances, couldnot have been more clearly brought hometo them. They liked also to hear of theinstruments played upon before the Lordby those that went ahead of the Ark; harps,psalteries, and timbrels; cornets, cymbals,and instruments made of fir-wood.

Then there was David, who danced at thehead of the procession "girded with alinen ephod," which, somehow, soundedinsufficient; and indeed, it appeared thatClytie was inclined to side wholly with

Michal, David's wife, who looked througha window and despised him when she sawhim "leaping and dancing before theLord," uncovered save for the presumablyinadequate ephod of linen. She, Clytie,thought it not well that a man of David'syears and honour should "make himselfridiculous that way."

So it was early in this new life that thelittle boys came to walk as it behoovesthose to walk who shall taste death. Andto the littler boy, prone to establishrelations and likenesses among his mentalimages, the big house itself would at timesbe more than itself to him. There was theFront Room. Only the use of capital letterscan indicate the manner in which he wasaccustomed to regard it. Each Friday,

when it was opened for a solemn dusting,he timidly pierced its stately gloom fromthe threshold of its door. It seemed to bean abode of dead joys—a place wherethey had gone to reign forever in fixed andsolemn festival. And while he could notsee God there, actually, neither in thehorsehair sofa nor the bleak melodeonsurmounted by tall vases of dyed grass,nor in the center-table with its cemeterialtop, nor under the empty horsehair andgreen-rep chairs, set at expectant angles,nor in the cold, tall stove, ornately setwith jewels of polished nickel, and surelynot in the somewhat frivolous air-castle ofcardboard and scarlet zephyr that flutteredfrom the ceiling—yet in and over andthrough the dark of it was a forbiddingspirit that breathed out the cold mustiness

of the tomb—an all-pervading thing ofgloom and majesty which was nothing initself, yet a quality and part of everything,even of himself when he looked in. Andthis quality or spirit he conceived to beGod—the more as it came to him in aflash of divination that the superb andimmaculate coal-stove must be like theArk of the Covenant.

Thus the Front Room became what"Heaven" meant to him when he heard theword—a place difficult of access, to beprized not so much for what it actuallyafforded as for what it enabled one toavoid; a place whose very joys, indeed,would fill with dismay any but theabsolutely pure in heart; a place ofrestricted area, moreover, while all

outside was a speciously pleasant hell,teeming with every potent solicitation ofevil, of games and sweets and joyousidleness.

The word "God," then, became at this timea word of evil import to the littler boy, assinister as the rustle of black silk on aSabbath morning, when he must walksedately to church with his hand inClytie's, with scarce an envious glance atthe proud, happy loafers, who, clean-shaven and in their own Sabbath finery,sat on the big boxes in front of the shutstores and whittled and laughed andgossiped rarely, like very princes.

To Clytie he once said, of something forwhich he was about to ask her permission,"Oh, it must be awful, awful wicked—

because I want to do it very, very much!—not like, going to church."

Yet the ascetic life was not devoid ofcompensation— particularly when MiloBarrus, the village atheist, was pointedout to him among the care-free Sabbathloafers.

Clytie predicted most direly interestingthings of him if he did not come to the Feetbefore he died. "But I believe he willcome to the Feet," she added, "even if it'son his very death-bed, with the cold sweatstanding on his brow. It would make alovely tract—him coming to the Feet at thevery last moment and his face lighting upand everything."

The little boy, however, rather hopedMilo Barrus wouldn't come to the Feet. It

was more worth while going to Heaven ifhe didn't, and if you could look down andsee him after it was too late for him tocome. During church that morning hechiefly wondered about the Feet. Once,long ago, it seemed, he had been with hisdear father in a very big city, and out ofthe maze of all its tangled marvels ofsound and sight he had brought and madehis own forever one image: the image of amighty foot carved in marble, set on apedestal at the bottom of a dark stairway.It had been severed at the ankle, andaround the top was modestly chiselled aborder of lace. It was a foot larger thanhis whole body, and he had passed eager,questioning hands over its whole surface,pressing it from heel to each perfect toe.Of course, this must be one of the Feet to

which Milo Barrus might come; hewondered if the other would be up thatdark stairway, and if Milo Barrus wouldgo up to look for it—and what did youhave to do when you got to the Feet? Thepossibility of not getting to them, or offinding only one of them, began to fill hisinner life quite as the sombre shadowsfilled and made a presence of themselvesin the Front Room—particularly of aSabbath, when one must be uncommonlygood because God seemed to take morenotice than on week-days.

During the week, indeed, Clytie oftenrelaxed her austerity. She would evenread to him verses of her owncomposition, of which he never tired andof which he learned to repeat not a few.

One of her pastoral poems told of a visitshe had once made to the home of arelative in a neighbouring State. It beganthus:

"New Hampshire isa pretty place, I did go there tosee The maple-sugarbeing boiled By one that's dearto me."

Bernal came to know it all as far as thestanza——

"I loved to hear thebanjo hum, It sounds so verycalmly; If a happy home youwish to find, Visit the Thompsonfamily."

After this the verses became less direct,and, to his mind, rather wordy andpurposeless, though he never failed of joyin the mere verbal music of them whenClytie read, with sometimes a kind ofwarm tremble in her voice—

"At lovers' promisesfates grow merrilee; Some are made on

land, Some on the deepsea. Love doessometimes leave Streams oftears."

He thought she looked very beautiful whenshe read this, in a voice that sounded likecrying, with her big, square face, her fatcheeks that looked like russet apples, hervery tiny black moustache, her smooth,oily black hair with a semicircle of tightlittle curls over her brow, and herbeautiful, big, rounded, shining forehead.

Yet he preferred her poems of action, likethat of Salmon Faubel, whose bride

became so homesick in Edom that she wasin a way to perish, so that Salmon took herto her home and found work there forhimself. He even sang one catchy coupletof this to music of his own:

"For her dear sakewhom he did pity, He took her back toJersey City."

But the Sabbath came inexorably to bringhis sinful nature before him, just as thedoor of the Front Room was opened eachweek to remind him of the awful joys ofHeaven. And then his mind was like thedesert of shifting sands. There were so

many things to be done and not done if onewere to avert the wrath of this God thatmade the Front Room a cavern of terror,that rumbled threateningly in the prayer ofhis grandfather and shook the youngminister to a white passion each Sabbath.

There was being good—which was not tocommit murder or be an atheist like MiloBarrus and spell God with a little g; andthere was Coming to the Feet—not sosimple as it sounded, he could very welltell them; and there was the matter ofBlood. There were hymns, for example,that left him confused. The " fountainfilled with blood drawn from Immanuel'sveins" sounded interesting. Vividly hesaw the "sinners plunged beneath thatflood" losing all their guilty stains. It was

entirely reasonable, and with anassumption of carelessness he glancedcautiously over his own body eachmorning to see if his guilty stains showedyet. But who was Immanuel? And wherewas this excellent fountain?

Then there was being "washed in theblood of the lamb," which wasconsiderably simpler—except for thematter of its making one "whiter thansnow." He was doubtful of this result,unless it was only poetry-writing whichdoesn't mean everything it says. He meantto try this sometime, when he could get alamb, both as a means of grace and as adesirable experiment.

But plunging into the fountain filled withblood sounded far more important and

effectual—if it were only practicable. Asthe sinners came out of this flood hethought they must look as Clytie did in herscarlet flannel petticoat the night he wastaken with croup and she came runningwith the Magnetic Ointment—evenredder!

The big white house of GrandfatherDelcher and Clytie, in short, was a housein which to be terrified and happy;anxious and well-fed. And if its innerrecesses took on too much gloomy portentone could always fly to the big yard wheregrew monarch elms and maples and a rowof formal spruces; where the lawn on oneside was bordered with beds of petuniasand fuschias, tiger-lilies and dahlias;where were a great clump of white lilacs

and many bushes of yellow roses; a lawnthat stretched unbrokenly to the windowsof the next big house where lived thegentle stranger with the soft, warm littlevoice who had chosen the good name ofLillian May.

Life was severely earnest but by no meansimpracticable.

CHAPTER V

The Life of Crime isAppraised and Chosen

It came to seem expedient to Bernal,however, in the first spring of his newlife, to make a final choice between earlydeath and a life, of sin. Matters came topress upon him, and since virtue wasuseful only to get one into Heaven, it wasnot worth the effort unless one meant todie at once. This was an alternative notwithout its lures, despite the warningspreached all about him. It would surely beinteresting to die, if one had come

properly to the Feet. Even coming to butone of the Feet, as he had, might make itstill more interesting. Perhaps he wouldnot, for this reason, be always shut up inHeaven. In his secret heart was a livelydesire to see just what they did to MiloBarrus, if he should continue to spell Godwith a little g on his very death-bed—thatis, if he could see it without disadvantageto himself: But then, you could save thatup, because you must die sometime, likeXerxes the Great; and meantime, therewas the life of evil now opening wide tothe vision with all enticing refreshments.

First, it meant no school. He had ceased topicture relief in this matter by the school-house burning some morning, preferably aMonday morning, one second after school

had taken in. For a month he had dailydramatised to himself the building's swiftdestruction amid the kind and merryflames. But Allan, to whom he had oneday hinted the possibility of this graciousoccurrence, had reminded him brutallythat they would probably have school inthe Methodist church until a new school-house could be built. For Allan loved hisschool and his teacher.

But a life of evil promised other joysbesides this negative one of no school. Inhis latest Sunday-school book, RalphOverton, the good boy, not only attendedschool slavishly, so that at thirteen he"could write a good business hand"; but hepractised those little tricks of picking upevery pin, always untying the string

instead of cutting it, keeping his shoesneatly polished and his hands clean, whichwere, in a simpler day, held to lay thefoundations of commercial success in ourrepublic. Besides this, Ralph had to bebright and cheery to every one, to workfor his widowed mother after school; andevery Saturday afternoon he went,sickeningly of his own accord, to splitwood for an aged and poor lady. This ladyseemed to Bernal to do nothing much butburn a tremendous lot of stove-wood, butpresently she turned out to be the long-lostcousin of Mr. Granville Parkinson, theGreat Banker from the City, whothereupon took cheery Ralph there andgave him a position in the bank where hecould be honest and industrious andrespectful to his superiors. Such was the

barren tale of Virtue's gain. But contrastedwith Ralph Overton in this book was oneBudd Jackson, who led a life ofvoluptuous sloth, except at times when theevil one moved him to activity. At thesebad moments he might go bobbing forcatfish on a Sabbath, or purloin fruit fromthe orchard of Farmer Haskins (whowould gladly have given some to him if hehad but asked for it civilly, so the booksaid); or he might bully smaller boyswhom he met on their way to school,taking their sailor hats away from them, orjeering coarsely at their neatly brushedgarments. When Budd broke a window inthe Methodist parsonage with his slung-shot and tried to lie it on to RalphOverton, he seemed to have given wayutterly to his vicious nature. He was

known soon thereafter to have drunkliquor and played a game called pin-poolwith a "flashy stranger" at the tavern;hence no one was surprised when hepresently ran off with a circus, became aninfidel, and perished miserably in the toilsof vice.

This touch about the circus, well-intended,to be sure, was yet fatal to all good thetale might have done the little boy. Clytie,who read most of the story to him,declared Budd Jackson to be "a regularmean one." But in his heart Bernal,thinking all at once of the circus, sickenedunutterably of Virtue. To drive eightspirited white horses, seated high on oneof those gay closed wagons—those thatwent through the street with that delicious

hollow rumble—hearing perchance thevelvet tread, or the clawing and snarlingof some pent ferocity—a leopard, a lion,what not; to hear each day that muffled,flattened beating of a bass drum andcymbals far within the big tent, quick andstill more quickly, denoting to theexperienced ear that pink and spangledBeauty danced on the big white horse at adeathless gallop; to know that one mightfreely enter that tented elysium—if it werepossible he would run off with a circusthough it meant that he had the morals of aserpent!

Now, eastward from the big house lay thevillage and its churches: thither was tamevirtue. But westward lay a broad fieldstretching off to an orchard, and beyond

swelled a gentle hill, mellow in thedistance. Still more remotely far, at thehill's rim, was a blur of woods beyondwhich the sun went down each night. This,in the little boy's mind, was the highway tothe glad free Life of Evil. Many days helooked to that western wood when the skywas a gush of colour behind its furrededge, perceiving all manner of allurementsto beckon him, hearing them plead, feelingthem tug. Daily his spirit quickened withinhim to their solicitations, leaping out andbeyond him in some magic way to bringback veritable meanings and values of thefuture.

Then a day came when the desire to be offwas no longer resistible. There was amonth of school yet; an especially bitter

thought, for had he not lately been out ofschool a week with mumps; and duringthat very week had not the teacher's fatherdied, so that he was cheated out of theresulting three-days' vacation, otherchildren being free while he lay on a bedof pain—if you tasted pickles or any sourthing? Not only was it useless to try tolearn to write "a good business hand," likeRalph Overton—he took the phrase tomean one of those pictured hands thatwere always pointing to things in thenewspaper advertisements—but there wasthe circus and other evil things—and hewas getting on in years.

It was a Saturday afternoon. To-morrowwould be too late. He knew he would notbe allowed to start on the Sabbath, even in

a career that was to be all wickedness. Inthe grape-arbour he massed certainarticles necessary for the expedition: avery small strip of carpet on which hemeant to sleep; a copy of "Golden Days,"with an article giving elaborateinstructions for camping in the wilderness.He was compelled to disregard all ofthem, but there was comfort andsustenance in the article itself. Then therewas the gun that came at Christmas. It shota cork as far as the string would let it go,with a fairly satisfying report (he wouldhave that string off, once he was in thewoods!). Also there were three glassalleys, two agate taws and thirty-eightcommies. And to hold his outfit there wasa rather sizable box which he with hisown hands had papered inside and out

from a remnant of gorgeously floweredwall-paper.

When all was ready he went in to breakthe news to Clytie. She, busy with herbaking, heard him declare:

"Now—I'm going to leave this place!"with the look of one who will not becoaxed nor in any manner dissuaded. Hethought she took it rather coolly, thoughAllan ran, as promptly as he could havewished, to tell his grandfather.

"I'm going to be a regular mean one—worse'n Budd Jackson!" he continued toClytie. He was glad to see that thisbrought her to her senses.

"Will you stay if I give you—an orange?"

"No, sir;—you'll never set eyes on me

again!"

"Oh, now!—two oranges?"

"I can't—I got to go!" in a voice tensewith effort.

"All right! Then I'll give them to Allan."

She continued to take brown loaves fromthe oven and to put other loaves in tobake, while he stood awkwardly by, loathto part from her. Allan came backbreathless.

"Grandpa says you can go as far as youlike and you needn't come back till you getready!"

He shifted from one foot to the other andabsently ate a warm cookie from the jarfulat his hand. He thought this seemed not

quite the correct attitude to take towardhim, yet he did not waver. They would besorry enough in a few days, when it wastoo late.

"I guess I better take a few of these alongwith me," he said, stowing cookies in thepockets of his jacket. He would have likedone of the big preserved peaches allpunctuated with cloves, but he saw noway to carry it, and felt really unable toeat it on the spot.

"Well, good-bye!" he called to Clytie,turning back to her from the door.

"Good-bye! Won't you shake hands withme?"

Very solemnly he shook her big, flouryhand.

"Now—could I take Penny along?" (Pennywas an inconsequential dog that had beengiven to Clytie by one whom she calledCousin Bill J.)

"Yes, you'll need a dog to keep theanimals off. Now be sure you write to us—at least twice a year— don't forget!"And, brutally before his very eyes, shehanded the sniffing and virtuous Allan twoof the largest, most goldenly beautifuloranges ever beheld by man.

Bitterly the self-exiled turned from thisharrowing scene and strode toward hisbox.

Here ensued a fresh complication. Nancy,who had chosen the good name of LillianMay, wanted to go with him. She, too, itappeared, was fresh from a Sunday-school

book—one in which a girl of her own agewas so proud of her long raven curls thatshe was brought to an illness and all herhair came out. There was a distressingpicture of this little girl after a justProvidence had done its work as adepilatory. And after she recovered fromthe fever, it seemed, she had cared to donothing but read the Scriptures to bed-ridden old ladies—even after a good dealof her hair came in again —though it didn'tcurl this time. The only pleasure she everexperienced thereafter was that, by virtueof her now singularly angelic character,she was enabled to convert an elderlyfemale Papist—an achievement the joys ofwhich were problematic, both to Nancyand the little boy. Certainly, whateverconverting a Papist might be, it was

nothing comparable to driving a red-and-green-and-gold wagon in which wascaged the Scourge of the Jungle.

But Nancy could not go with him. He toldher so plainly. It was no place for a girlbeyond that hill where they commonlydrove caged beasts, and no one ever somuch as thought of Coming to the Feet orwashing in the blood of the Lamb, orwriting a good business hand with the firstfinger of it pointing out, or anything.

The little girl pleaded, promising to takeher new pink silk parasol, her buffbuttoned shoes, a Christmas card with realsnow on it, shining like diamonds, andFragile, her best doll. The thing wasimpossible. Then she wept.

He whistled to Penny, who came barking

joyously— a pretender of a dog, if thereever was one—and they moved off.Weeping after them went Nancy—as faras the first fence, between two boards ofwhich she put her head and sobbed with aheavenly bitterness; for to the little boy,pushing sternly on, her tears afforded thatcertain thrill of gratified brutality underconscious rectitude, the capacity forwhich is among those matters by whichHeaven has set the male of our speciesapart from the female. The sensationwould have been flawless but for Allan'slack of dignity: from the top board of thefence he held aloft in either hand a goldenorange, and he chanted in endless inanity:

Chink, Chink

Chiraddam!Don't you wisht youhad 'em? Chink, ChinkChiraddam! Don't you wishtyou had 'em?

Still he was actually and triumphantly off.

And here should be recalled the saying ofa certain wise, simple man: "If ourfailures are made tragic by courage theyare not different from successes." For itcame about that the subsequent dignity ofthis revolt was to be wholly in itscourage.

The way led over a stretch of grassy

prairie to a fence. This surmounted, therecame a ploughed field, of considerableextent to one carrying an inconvenient box.At the farther end of this was anotherfence, and beyond this an ancient orchardwith a grassy floor, where lingered a fewold apple-trees, under which therecumbent cows, chewing and placid,dozed like stout old ladies over theirknitting.

Nearest the fence was an aged, gnarledand riven tree, foolishly decked inblossoms, like some faded, wrinkleddame, fatuously reluctant to leave offgirlish finery. Under its frivolous brancheson the grassy sward would be the placefor his first night's halt—for the magicwood just this side of the sun was now

seen to be farther off than he had oncesupposed. So he spread his carpet,arranged the contents of his box neatly,and ate half his food-supply, for one'sstrength must be kept up in these affairs.As he ate he looked back toward the bighouse—now left forever—and toward thevillage beyond. The spires of the threechurches were all pointing sternlyupward, as if they would mutely directhim aright, but in their shelter one mustsubmit to the prosaic trammels of decency.It was not to be thought of.

He longed for morning to come, so that hemight be up and on. He lay down on hismat to be ready for sleep, and watched abig bird far above, cutting lazy gracefulfigures in the air, like a fancy skater. Then,

on a bough above him, a little dusty-looking bird tried to sing, but it soundedonly like a very small door creaking ontiny rusted hinges. A fat, gluttonous robinthat had been hopping about to peer athim, chirped far more cheerfully as it flewaway.

Just at this point he suffered a realadventure. Eight cows sauntered upinterestedly and chewed their cuds at himin unison, standing contemplative,calculating, determined. It is a fact innatural history not widely enoughrecognised that the domestic cow is themost ferocious appearing of all knownbeasts—a thing to be proved by any whowill survey one amid strangesurroundings, with a mind cleanly

disabused of preconceptions. A visitorfrom another planet, for example, knowingnothing of our fauna, and confronted in theforest simultaneously by a common redmilch cow and the notoriously savageblack leopard of the Himalyas, wouldinstinctively shun the cow as a dangerousbeast and confidingly seek to fondle thepretty leopard, thus terminating his naturalhistory researches before they were fairlybegun.

It can be understood, then, that a momentensued when the little boy wavered underthe steady questioning scrutiny of eightlarge and powerful cows, all chewing athim in unison. Yet, even so, and knowing,moreover, that strange cows are everuntrustworthy, only for a moment did he

waver. Then his new straw hat was off tobe shaken at them and he heaved a fierce"H-a-y—y-u-p!"At this they started, rather indignantly,seeming to meditate his swift destruction;but another shout turned and routed them,and he even chased them a little way,helped now by the inconsiderable dogwho came up from pretending to huntgophers.

After this there seemed nothing to do buteat the other half of the provisions andretire again for the night. Long after thesun went down behind the magic wood helay uneasily on his lumpy bed, trying againand again to shut his eyes and open themto find it morning—which was the way italways happened in the west bedroom of

the big house he had left forever.

But it was different here. And presently,when it seemed nearly dark except for thestars, a disgraceful thing happened. Hehad pictured the dog as faithful always tohim, refusing in the end even to be takenfrom over his dead body. But thetreacherous Penny grew first restive, thenplainly desirous of returning to his home.At last, after many efforts to corrupt theadventurer, he started off briskly alone—cornerwise, as little dogs seem always torun—fleeing shamelessly toward that eastwhere shone the tame lights of Virtue.

Left alone, the little boy began strangely toremember certain phrases from a tract thatClytie had tried to teach him—"themoment that will close thy life on earth

and begin thy song in heaven or thy wail inhell"—"impossible to go from the hauntsof sin and vice to the presence of theLamb"—"the torments of an eternal hellare awaiting thee"——

"To-night may be thylatest breath, Thy little momenthere be done. Eternal woe, thesecond death, Awaits the Christ-rejecting one."

This was more than he had ever beforebeen able to recall of such matters. He

wished that he might have forgotten themwholly. Yet so was he turned again tobetter things. Gradually he began to havean inkling of a possibility that made hisblood icy —a possibility that not even thespectacle of Milo Barrus havinginteresting things done to him couldmitigate—namely, a vision of himself inthe same plight with that person.

Now it was that he began to hear Them allabout him. They walked stealthily near,passed him with sinister rustlings, andwhispered over him. If They had onlytalked out—but they whispered—evenlaughing, crying and singing in whispers.This horror, of course, was not long to beendured. Yet, even so, with increasingmyriads of Them all about, rustling and

whispering their awful laughs and cries —it was no ignominious rout. Withconsiderable deliberation he folded thecarpet, placed it in the box with his othertreasure, and started at a pace which may,perhaps, have quickened a little, yet wasnever undignified —never more than amoderately fast trudge.

He wondered sadly if Clytie would get upto unlock the door for him so late at night.As for Penny, things could never be thesame between them again.

He was astounded to see lights burningand the house open—how weird for themto have supper at such an hour! Heconcealed his box in the grape-arbour andslunk through the kitchen into the dining-room. Probably they had gotten up in the

middle of the night, out of tardy alarm forhim. It served them right. Yet they seemedhardly to notice him when he slidawkwardly into his chair. He lookedcalculatingly over the table and asked, intones that somehow seemed to tell ofinjury, of personal affront:

"What you having supper for at this timeof night?"

His grandfather regarded him now notunkindly, while Clytie seemed confused.

"It's more'n long past midnight!" heinsisted.

"Huh! it ain't only a quarter past seven,"put in his superior brother. He seemedabout to say more, but a glance from thegrandfather silenced him.

So that was as late as he had stayed—aquarter after seven? He was ready now torage at any taunt, and began to eat inhaughty silence. He was still eating whenhis grandfather and Allan left the table,and then he began to feel a little gratefulthat they had not noticed or askedannoying questions, or tried to be funny oranything. Over a final dish of plumpreserves and an imposing segment ofmarble cake he relented so far as to tellClytie something of his adventures —especially since she had said that the bighall-clock was very likely slow—that itmust surely be a lot later than a quarterpast seven. The circumstances hadcombined to produce a narrative notentirely perspicuous—the two clear pointsbeing that They do everything in a

whisper, and that Clytie ought to get rid ofPenny at once, since he could not bedepended upon at great moments.

As to ever sleeping under a tree, Clytiediscouraged him. She knew of some Boysthat once sat under a tree which wasstruck by lightning, all being killed saveone, who had the rare good luck to be theson of a Presbyterian clergyman. The littleboy resolved next time to go beyond thetrees to sleep; perhaps if he went farenough he would come to the other one ofthe Feet, and so have a safeguard againstlightning, foreign cows, and Those thatwalk with rustlings and whisper in thelonely places at night.

The little boy fell asleep, half-persuadedagain to virtue, because of its superior

comforts. The air about his head seemedfull of ghostly "good business hands,"each with its accusing forefinger pointedat him for that he had not learned to writeone as Ralph Overton did.

Down the hall in his study the old manwas musing backward to the delicate,quiet girl with the old-fashioned aureoleof curls, who would now and then tossthem with a little gesture eloquent ofpossibilities for unrestraint when she feltthe close-drawn rein of his authority.Again he felt her rebellious little tugs, andthe wrench of her final defiance when shedid the awful thing. He had been told by aplain speaker that her revolt was the faultof his severity. And here was the flesh ofher flesh—was it in the same spirit of

revolt against authority, a thousandfoldmagnified? Might he not by according theboy a wise liberty save him in after yearsfrom some mad folly akin to his mother's?

CHAPTER VI

The Garden of Truth and thePerfect Father

It was a different summer from those thathad gone before it.

A little passionate Protestant had salliedout to make bed with the gods; and thesouls of such the just gods do truly takeinto certain shining realms whither poorinvolatile bodies of flesh may not follow.The requirement is that one feel his ownpotential godship enough to rebel. For,having rebelled, he will assuredly venture

beyond mortal domains into that gardenwhere stands the tree of Truth—thisgarden being that one to the west justbeyond the second fence (or whicheverfence); that point where the mortal ofinvertebrate soul is beset with the feelingthat he has already dared too far—that hehad better make for home mighty quick ifhe doesn't want Something to get him. Theessence of this decision is quite the samewhether the mortal be eight years old oreighty. Now the Tree of Truth stands justover this line at which all but the gods'own turn to scamper back before supper.It is the first tree to the left—an apple-tree, twisted, blackened, scathed, eatenwith age, yet full of blossoms as fresh andfertile as those first born of any young treewhatsoever. Those able rightly to read

this tree of Truth become at once as thegods, keeping the faith of children whileabsorbing the wisdom of the ages—lacking either of which, be it known, onemay not become an imperishable ornamentof Time.

But to him who is bravely faithful to thepassing of that last fence, who reclinesunder that tree even for so long as oneaspiration, comes a substantial gain: everafter, when he goes into any solitude, hebecomes more than himself. Then he readsthe first lesson of the tree of Truth, whichis that the spirit of Life ages yet is ageless;and suffers yet is joyous. This is noinconsiderable reward for passing thatfrontier, even if one must live longer tocomprehend reasons. It is worth while

even if the mortal become a meredilettante in paradoxes and never learneven feebly to spell the third lesson,which is the ultimate wisdom of the gods.

These matters being precisely so, the littleboy knew quite as well as the gods couldknow it, that a credit had been set down tohis soul for what he had ventured— eventhough what he had not done was, so far,more stupendous than what he had, in theworld of things and mere people. He nowbecame enamoured of life rather thandeath; and he studied the ShorterCatechism with such effect that he couldsay it clear over to "Every sin deservethGod's wrath and curse both in this lifeand that which is to come." Each night hetried earnestly to learn two new answers;

and glad was he when his grandfatherwould sit by him, for the old man had nowbecome his image of God, and it seemedfitting to recite to him. Often as they sattogether the little boy would absently sliphis hand into the big, warm, bony hand ofthe old man, turning and twisting it thereuntil he felt an answering pressure. Thisembarrassed the old man. Though hewould really have liked to take the littleboy up to his breast and hold him there, heknew not how; and he would even becareful not to restrain the little hand in hisown—to hold it, yet to leave it free towithdraw at its first uneasy wriggle.

Of this shackled spirit of kindness, alwaysstriving within the old man, the little boyhad come to be entirely conscious. So real

was it to him, so dependable, that he neversuspected that a certain little blow withthe open hand one day was meant topunish him for conduct he had persisted inafter three emphatic admonitions.

"Oh! that hurts!" he had cried, looking upat the confused old man with unimpairedfaith in his having meant not more than apiece of friendly roughness. This look offlawless confidence in the uprightness ofhis purpose, the fine determination to savehim chagrin by smiling even though thehurt place tingled, left in the old man'smind a biting conviction that he had beenactually on the point of behaving as onegentleman may not behave to another.Quick was he to make the encounteraccord with the child's happy view, even

picking him up and forcing from himselfthe gaiety to rally him upon his babyishtenderness to rough play. Not less did hehold it true that "The rod and reproof givewisdom, but a child left to himselfbringeth his mother to shame——" andwith the older boy he was notunconscientious in this matter. For Allantook punishment as any boy would, and,indeed, was so careful that he seldomdeserved it. But the old man never ceasedto be grateful that the littler boy hadlaughed under that one blow, unable tosuspect that it could have been meant inearnest.

From the first day that the little boy felt thetender cool grass under his bare toes thatsummer, life became like perfectly played

music. This was after the long vacationbegan, when there was no longer any needto remember to let his voice fall after aperiod, or to dread his lessons so that hemust learn them more quickly than anyother pupil in school. There would be nomore of that wretched fooling until fall, apoint of time inconceivably far away.Before it arrived any one of a number ofstrange things might happen to avert thecalamity of education. For instance, hemight be born again, a thing of which hehad lately heard talk; a contingency by nomeans flawless in prospect, since itprobably meant having the mumps again,and things like that. But if it came on thevery last day of vacation, or on the firstmorning of school, just as he was calledon to recite, snatching him from the very

jaws of the Moloch, and if it fixed him sohe need not be afraid in the night of goingwhere Milo Barrus was going, then itmight not be so bad.

Nancy, who had now discarded the goodname of Lillian May for simple Alice,disapproved heartily of being born again;unless, indeed, one could be born a boythe second time. She was only too eagerfor the day when she need not submit tohaving her hair brushed and combed solong every morning of her life. Not for theworld would she go through it again andhave to begin French all over, even at"J'ai, tu as, il a." Yet, if it were certainshe could be a boy——

He was too considerate to tell her that thiswas as good as impossible—that she quite

lacked the qualities necessary for that.Instead, he reassured her with thechivalrous fiction that he, at least, wouldlike her as well as if she were a boy. And,indeed, as a girl, she was not whollyunsatisfactory. True, she played "school"(of all things!) in preference to "wildanimals," practised scales on the piano anhour every day, wore a sun-hat frequently—spite of which she was freckled— woreshoes and stockings on the hottest days,when one's feet are so hungry for the cool,springy turf, and performed other actsrepugnant to a soul that has brought itselferect. But she was fresh and dainty to lookat, like an opened morning glory, withpretty frocks that the French lady whosename was Madmasel made her wear everyday, and her eyes were much like certain

flowers in the bed under the bay-window,with very long, black lashes that got allstuck together when she cried; and shemade superb capital letters, far better thanthe little boy's, though she was a yearyounger.

Also, which was perhaps her chief charm,she could be made to believe that only hecould protect her from the Gratcher, amonstrous thing, half beast, half human,which was often seen back of the house;sometimes flitting through the grape-arbour, sometimes coming out of the darkcellar, sometimes peering around corners.It was a thing that went on enormouscrutches, yet could always catch you if itsaw you by daylight out of its right eye, itsleft being serviceable only at night, when,

if you were wise, you kept in the house.Once the Gratcher saw you with its righteye the crutches swung toward you andyou were caught: it picked you up andbegan to look you all over, with the eyesin the ends of its fingers. This tickled youso that you went crazy in a minute.

Nancy feared the Gratcher, and shebecame supremely lovely to the little boywhen she permitted him to guard her fromit, instead of running home across the lawnwhen it was surely coming;—a lovelinesshe felt more poignantly at certainreflective times when he was not alsoafraid. For, the Gratcher being his owninvention, these moments of superiority toits terrors would inevitably seize him.

"She could be made to believe that only hecould protect her from the Gratcher."

Better than protecting Nancy did he loveto report the Gratcher's immediatepresence to Allan, daring him to stay onthat spot until it put its dreadful headaround the corner and shook one of itscrutches at them. In low throbbing tones hewould report its fearful approach, strideby stride, on the crutches. This he coulddo by means of the Gratcher-eye, withwhich he claimed to be endowed. Onehaving a Gratcher-eye can see around anycorner when a Gratcher happens to becoming—yet only then, not at any othertime, as Allan had proved by experimenton the first disclosure of this phenomenon.He of the Gratcher-eye could positivelynot see around a corner, if, for example,Allan himself was there; the Gratcher-eyecould not tell if his hat was on his head or

off. But this by no means proved that theGratcher-eye did not exercise its magicfunction when a Gratcher actuallyapproached, and Allan knew it. He wouldstand staunchly, with a fine incredulity,while the little boy called off the strides,perhaps, until he announced "Now he's justpassed the well-curb—now he's——" buthere, scoffing over an anxious shoulder,Allan would go in where Clytie wasbaking, feigning a sudden great hunger.

Nancy would stay, because she believedthe little boy's protestations that he couldsave her, and the little boy himself oftenbelieved them.

"I love Allan best, because he is socomfortable, but I think you are the mostadmirable," she would say to him at such

times; and he thought well of her if shehad seemed very, very frightened.

So life had become a hardy sport withhim. No longer was he moved to wish forearly dissolution when Clytie's songfloated to him:

"'I should like todie,' said Willie, If my papa coulddie, too; But he says he isn'tready, 'Cause he has somuch to do!"

This Willie had once seemed sweet and

noble to him, but the words now made himavid of new life by reminding him that hisown dear father would soon come to bewith him one week, as he had promisedwhen last they parted, and as a letterwritten with magnificent flourishes nowannounced.

Late in August this perfect father came—afine laughing, rollicking, big gentleman,with a great, loud voice, and beautifullong curls that touched his velvet coat-collar. His sweeping golden moustache,wide-brimmed white hat, the choice ringson his fingers, his magnificentlyponderous gold watch-chain and a watchof the finest silver, all proclaimed him abeing of such flawless elegance both inperson and attire that the little boy never

grew tired of showing him to the villagepeople and to Clytie. He did not stay at thebig house, for some reason, but at theEagle Hotel, whence he came to see hisboys each day, or met them hurrying to seehim. And for a further reason which thelittle boys did not understand, theirgrandfather continued to be too busy to seethis perfect father once during the week hestayed in the village.

Deeming it a pity that two such choicespirits should not be brought together, thelittle boy urged his father to bring hisfiddle to the big house and play and singsome of his fine songs, so that hisgrandfather could have a chance to hearsome good music. He knew well enoughthat if the old man once heard this music

he would have to give in and enjoy it,even if he was too busy to come down.And if only his father would tune up thefiddle and sing that very, very good songabout,

"The more she said'Whoa!' They cried, 'Let hergo!' And the swing wenta little bit higher,"

if only his grandfather could hear this, oneof the funniest and noisiest songs in theworld, perhaps he would come right downstairs. But his father laughed away the

suggestion, saying that the old gentlemanhad no ear for music; which, of course,was a joke, for he had two, like anyperson.

Clytemnestra, too, was at first strangelycool to the incomparable father, though atlast she proved not wholly insensible tohis charm, providing for his refection hervery choicest cake and the last tumbler ofcrab-apple jelly. She began to suspect thata man of manners so engaging must havegood in him, and she gave him at partingthe tracts of "The Dying Drummer Boy"and "Sinner, what if You Die To-day?" forwhich he professed warm gratitude.

The little boy afterward saw his perfectfather hand these very tracts to MiloBarrus, when they met him on the street,

saying, "Here, Barrus, get your soul savedwhile you wait!" Then they laughedtogether.

The little boy wondered if this meant thatMilo Barrus had come to the Feet, or beenborn again, or something. Or if it meantthat his father also spelled God with alittle g. He did not think of it, however,until it was too late to ask.

The flawless father went away at the endof the week, "over the County Fair circuit,selling Chief White Cloud's Great IndianRemedy," the little boy heard him tellClytie. Also he heard his grandfather sayto Clytie, "Thank God, not for anotheryear!"

The little boy liked Nancy better than everafter that, because she had liked his father

so much, saying he was exactly like aprince, giving pennies and nickels toeverybody and being so handsome and bigand grand. She wished her own UncleDoctor could be as beautiful and great;and the little boy was generous enough towish that his own plain grandfather mightbe almost as fine.

CHAPTER VII

The Superlative Cousin BillJ.

A splendid new interest had now comeinto the household in the person of onewhom Clytemnestra had so often named asCousin Bill J. Grandfather Delcher havingbeen ordered south for the winter by Dr.Crealock, Cousin Bill J., upon Clytie'srecommendation, was imported from upFredonia way to look after the cow and bea man about the place. Clytie assuredGrandfather Delcher that Cousin Bill J.had "never uttered an oath, though he's

been around horses all his life!" Thismade him at once an object of interest tothe little boy, though doubtless he failed toappraise the restraint at anything like itstrue value. It had sufficed GrandfatherDelcher, however, and Cousin Bill J.,securing leave of absence from the livery-stable in Fredonia, arrived the day the oldman left, making a double excitement forthe household.

He proved to be a fascinating person;handsome, affable, a ready talker upon allmatters of interest— though sarcastic,withal—and fond of boys. True, he hadnot long hair like the little boy's father.Indeed, he had not much hair at all, excepta sort of curtain of black curls extendingfrom ear to ear at the back of his bare,

pink head. But the little boy had to admitthat Cousin Bill J.'s moustache was evengrander than his father's. It fell in twograceful festoons far below his chin, witha little eyelet curled into each tip, and,like the ringlets, it showed the blue-blacklustre of the crow's wing. In the fullsunlight, at times, it became almost a royalpurple.

Later observation taught the little boy thatthis splendid hue was applied at intervalsby Cousin Bill J. himself. He did itdaintily with a small brush, every time themoustache began to show a bit rusty at theroots; Bernal never failed to be present atthis ceremony; nor to resolve that his ownmoustache, when it came, should be asscrupulously cared for—not left, like Dr.

Crealock's, for example, to becomespeckled and gray.

Cousin Bill J.'s garments were as splendidas his character. He had an overcoat andcap made from a buffalo hide; his high-heeled boots had maroon tops set withpurple crescents; his watch-charm was alarge gold horse in full gallop; his cravatwas an extensive area of scarlet satin inthe midst of which was caught a preciousstone as large as a robin's egg; and insmoking, which his physician hadprescribed, he used a superb meerschaumcigar-holder, all tinted a golden brown,upon which lightly perched a carven angeldressed like those that ride the big whitehorse in the circus.

But aside from these mere matters of form,

Cousin Bill J. was a man with a history.Some years before he had sprained hisback, since which time he had been unableto perform hard labour; but prior to thatmishap he had been a perfect specimen ofphysical manhood— one whose prowesshad been the marvel of an extensiveterritory. He had split and laid up his threehundred and fifty rails many a day, whenstrong men beside him had blushingly tostop with three hundred or thereabouts; hehad also cradled his four acres of grain ina day, and he could break the wildesthorse ever known. Even the great BuddDoble, whom he personally knew, hadsaid more than once, and in the presenceof unimpeachable witnesses, that in someways he, Budd Doble, knew less about ahorse than Cousin Bill J. did. The little

boy was wrought to enthusiasm by thistribute, resolving always to remember tosay "hoss" for horse; and, though he hadnot heard of Budd Doble before, the namewas magnetic for him. After you said itover several times he thought it made youfeel as if you had a cold in your head.

Still further, Cousin Bill J. could throwhis thumbs out of joint, sing tenor in thechoir, charm away warts, recite "Rogerand I" and "The Death of Little Nell," andhe knew all the things that would makeboys grow fast, like bringing in wood,splitting kindling, putting down hay for thecow, and other out-of-door exercises thathad made him the demon of strength heonce was. The little boy was not only gladto perform these acts for his own sake, but

for the sake of lightening the labours of hishero, who wrenched his back anew nearlyevery time he tried to do anything, andwas always having to take a medicine forit which he called "peach-and-honey." Thelittle boy thought the name attractive,though his heart bled for the sufferer eachtime he was obliged to take it; for afterevery swallow of the stuff he made a facethat told eloquently how nauseous it mustbe.

As for the satire and wit of Cousin Bill J.,they were of the dry sort. He would say toone he met on the street when the mud wasdeep, "Fine weather overhead"— thenadding dryly, after a significant pause—"but few going that way!" Or he wouldexclaim with feigned admiration, when the

little boy shot at a bird with his bow andarrow, "My! you made the feathers fly thattime!"—then, after his terrible pause—"only, the bird flew with them ." Alsohe could call it "Fourth of Ju-New-Years"without ever cracking a smile, though itcramped the little boy in helpless laughter.

Altogether, Cousin Bill J. was a winningand lovely character of merits bothspiritual and spectacular, and he broughtto the big house an exotic atmosphere thatwas spicy with delights. The little boyprayed that this hero might be made againthe man he once was; not because of anyflaw that he could see in him—but onlybecause the sufferer appeared somewhatless than perfect to himself. To Bernal'smind, indeed, nothing could have been

superior to the noble melancholy withwhich Cousin Bill J. looked back upon hissplendid past. There was a perfect dignityin it. Surely no mere electric belt couldbring to him an attraction surpassing this—though Cousin Bill J. insisted that henever expected any real improvement untilhe could save up enough money to buyone. He showed the little boy a picture cutfrom a newspaper—the picture of astrong, proud-looking man with plenteousblack whiskers, girded about with a widebelt that was projecting a great volume ofelectricity into the air in every direction. Itwas interesting enough, but the little boythought this person by no means sobeautiful as Cousin Bill J., and said so.He believed, too, though this he did notsay, from tactful motives, that it would

detract from the dignity of Cousin Bill J.to go about clad only in an electric belt,like the proud-looking gentleman in thepicture—even if the belt did send out a lotof electric wiggles all the time. But, ofcourse, Cousin Bill J. knew best. Helooked forward to having his father meetthis new hero—feeling that each wasperfect in his own way.

CHAPTER VIII

Searching the Scriptures

Around the evening lamp that winter thelittle boys studied Holy Writ, while Allanmade summaries of it for the edification ofthe proud grandfather in far-off Florida.

Tersely was the creation and the fall ofman set forth, under promptings andsuggestions from Clytie and Cousin BillJ., who was no mean Bible authority: howGod, "walking in the garden in the cool ofthe day," found his first pair ashamed oftheir nakedness, and with his own handsmade them coats of skins and clothed

them. "What a treasure those garmentswould be in this evil day," said Clytie—"what a silencing rebuke to allheretics!" But the Lord drove out thewicked pair, lest they "take also of thetree of life and live forever," saying,"Behold, the man is become as one of us!"This provoked a lengthy discussion thevery first evening as to whether it meantthat there was more than one God. AndClytie's view—that God called himself"Us" in the same sense that kings andeditors of newspapers do—at lengthprevailed over the polytheistic hypothesisof Cousin Bill J.

On they read to the Deluge, when manbecame so very bad indeed that God wassorry for ever having made him, and said:

"I will destroy man whom I have createdfrom the face of the earth; both man andthe beast and the creeping thing, and thefowls of the air, for it repenteth me that Ihave made them."

Hereupon Bernal suggested that all thewhite rabbits at least should have beensaved—thinking of his own two in thewarm nest in the barn. He was unable tosee how white rabbits with twitching pinknoses and pink rims around their eyescould be an offense, or, indeed, other thana pure joy even to one so good as God.But he gave in, with new admiration forthe ready mind of Cousin Bill J., whopointed out that white rabbits could nothave been saved because they were notfish. He even relished the dry quip that

maybe he, the little boy, thought whiterabbits were fish; but Cousin Bill J. didn't,for his part.

Past the Tower of Babel they went, whenthe Lord "came down to see the city andthe tower," and made them suddenly talkstrange tongues to one another so theycould not build their tower actually intoHeaven.

The little boy thought this a fine joke toplay on them, to set them all "jabbering"so.

After that there was a great deal offighting, and, in the language of Allan'ssummary, "God loved all the good peopleso he gave them lots of wives and cattleand sheep and he let them go out and killall the other people they wanted to which

was their enemies." But the little boyfound the butcheries rather monotonous.

Occasionally there was something graphicenough to excite, as where the heads ofAhab's seventy children were put into abasket and exposed in two heaps at thecity's gate; but for the most part it madehim sleepy.

True, when it came to getting the Childrenof Israel out of Egypt, as Cousin Bill J.observed, "Things brisked upconsiderable."

The plan of first hardening Pharaoh'sheart, then scaring him by a pestilence,then again hardening his heart for anothercalamity, quite won the little boy'sadmiration for its ingenuity, and evenCousin Bill J. would at times betray that

he was impressed. Feverishly theyfollowed the miracles done to Egypt; theplague of frogs, of lice, of flies, of boilsand blains on man and beast; the plague ofhail and lightning, of locusts, and the threedays of darkness. Then came the Lord'sfinal triumph, which was to kill all thefirst-born in the land of Egypt, "from thefirst-born of Pharaoh, that sitteth upon thethrone, even unto the first-born of themaid-servant that is behind the mill; andall the first-born of beasts." Again thelittle boy's heart ached as he thoughtpityingly of the first-born of all whiterabbits, but there was too much ofexcitement to dwell long upon that humbletragedy. There was the manner in whichthe Israelites identified themselves, bymarking their doors with a sprig of hyssop

dipped in the blood of a male lambwithout blemish. Vividly did he see thegood God gliding cautiously from door todoor, looking for the mark of blood, andpassing the lucky doors where it was seento be truly of a male lamb withoutblemish. He thought it must have taken alot of lambs to mark up all the doors!

Then came that master-stroke ofenterprise, when God directed Moses to"speak now in the ears of the people andlet every man borrow of his neighbour,and every woman of her neighbour, jewelsof silver and jewels of gold," so that theymight "spoil" the Egyptians. Cousin Bill J.chuckled when he read this, declaring it tobe "a regular Jew trick"; but Clytierebuked him quickly, reminding him that

they were God's own words, spoken inHis own holy voice.

"Well, it was mighty thoughtful in God,"insisted Cousin Bill J., but Clytie said,however that was, it served Pharaoh rightfor getting his heart hardened so often.

The little boy, not perceiving the exactsignificance of "spoil" in this connection,wondered if Cousin Bill J. would spoil ifsome one borrowed his gold horse and ranoff with it.

Then came that exciting day when the Lordsaid, "I will get me honour upon Pharaohand all his host," which He did bydrowning them thoroughly in the Red Sea.The little boy thought he would have likedto be there in a boat—a good safe boatthat would not tip over; also that he would

much like to have a rod such as Aaronhad, that would turn into a serpent. Itwould be a fine thing to take to schoolsome morning. But Cousin Bill J. thoughtit doubtful if one could be procured;though he had seen Heller pour fivecolours of wine out of a bottle which,when broken, proved to have a liveguinea-pig in it. This seemed to the littleboy more wonderful than Aaron's rod,though he felt it would not reflect honourupon God to say so.

Another evening they spent before Sinai,Cousin Bill J. reading the verses in asevere and loud tone when the voice of theLord was sounding. Duly impressed wasthe little boy with the terrors of the divinepresence, a thing so awful that the people

must not go up into the mount nor eventouch its border—lest "the Lord breakforth upon them: There shall not a handtouch it but he shall surely be stoned orshot through; whether it be beast or man itshall not live." Clytie said the goodness ofGod was shown herein. An evil Godwould not have warned them, and manyworthy but ignorant people would havebeen blasted.

Then He came down in thunder and smokeand lightning and earthquakes—whichCousin Bill J. read in tones that enabledBernal to feel every possible joy of terror;came to tell them that He was a veryjealous God and that they must notworship any of the other gods. Hecommanded that "thou shalt not revile the

Gods," also that they should "make nomention of the names of other Gods,"which Cousin Bill J. said was as fair asyou could ask.

When they reached the directions forsacrificing, the little boy was doubly alert—in the event that he should everdetermine to be washed in the blood of thelamb and have to do his own killing.

"Then," read Cousin Bill J., in a voicemeant to convey the augustness of Deity,"thou shalt kill the ram and take of hisblood and put it upon the tip of the rightear of Aaron and upon the tip of the rightear of his sons, and upon the thumb oftheir right hand, and upon the great toe oftheir right foot." So you didn't have towash all over in the blood. He agreed

with Clytie, who remarked that no onecould ever have found out how to do itright unless God had told. The God-givendirections that ensued for making thewater of separation from "the ashes of ared heifer" he did not find edifying; butsome verses after that seemed morepracticable. "And thou shalt take of theram," continued the reader in majesticcadence, "the fat and the rump and the fatthat covereth the inwards, and the caulabove the liver, and the two kidneys andthe fat that is upon them——"

Here was detail with a satisfyingminuteness; and all this was for "a wave-offering" to be waved before the Lord—which was indeed an interesting thought.

"If God was so careful of His children in

these small matters," said Clytie; "nowonder they believed He would care forthem in graver matters, and no wonderthey looked forward so eagerly to thecoming of His Son, whom He promisedshould be sent to save them from Hiswrath."

Through God's succeeding minutedirections for the building and upholsteryof His tabernacle, "with ten curtains offine twined linen and blue and purple andscarlet, with cherubims of cunning workshalt thou make them," the interest of thelittle boys rather languished; likewisethrough His regulations about such drymatters as slavery, divorce, andpolygamy. His directions for killingwitches and for stoning the ox that gores a

man or woman had more of colour inthem. But there was no real interest untilthe good God promised His children tobring them in unto the Amorites and theHittites and the Perizzites and theCanaanites, the Hivites and the Jebusites,to "cut them off." It was not uninterestingto know that God put Moses in a cleft ofthe rock and covered it with His handwhen He passed by, thus permitting Mosesa partial view of the divine person. Butthe actual fighting of battles was thereafterthe chief source of interest. For God was amighty God of battles, never weary of theglories of slaughter. When it was plainthat He could make a handful of twothousand Israelites slay two hundredthousand Midianites, in a moment, as onemight say, the wisdom of coming to the

Feet, being born again, and washing in theblood ceased to be debatable. It wouldseem very silly, indeed, to neglect anyprecaution that would insure the favour ofthis God, who slew cities full of men andwomen and little children off-hand. Thelittle boy thought Milo Barrus wouldbegin to spell a certain word with the verybiggest "G" he could make, if any onewere to bring these matters to his notice.

As to Allan, who made abstracts of thewinter's study, Clytemnestra and hertranscendent relative agreed that he wouldone day be a power in the land. Off toFlorida each week they sent his writing toGrandfather Delcher, who was proud of it,in spite of his heart going out chiefly to thelittler boy.

"So this is all I know now about God," ranthe conclusion, "except that He loved usso that He gave His only Son to becrucified so that He could forgive our sinsas soon as He saw His Son nailed up onthe cross, and those that believed it couldbe with the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,and those that didn't believe it, like theJews and heathens, would have to be inhell for ever and ever Amen. This provesHis great love for us and that He is thetrue God. So this is all I have learned thiswinter about God, who is a spirit infiniteeternal and unchangeable in his being,wisdom and power holiness justicegoodness and truth, and the word of Godis contained in the scriptures of the oldand new testament which is the only ruleto direct us how we may glorify and enjoy

him. In my next I will take up the meek andlowly Jesus and show you how much Ihave learned about him."

They had been unable to persuade thelittler boy into this species ofcomposition, his mind dwelling too muchon the first-born of white rabbits and such,but to show that his winter was not whollylost, he submitted a secular composition,which ran:

"BIRDS

"The Animl kindom is devided into birdsand reguler animls. Our teacher says wehad ougt to obsurv so I obsurv there isthree kinds of birds Jingle birds Squeekbirds and Clatter birds. Jingle birds hasfat rusty stumacks. I have not the trouble toobsurv any more kinds."

CHAPTER IX

On Surviving the Idols WeBuild

It is the way of life to be forever buildingnew idols in place of the old. Into thefabric of these the most of us put so muchof ourselves that a little of us dies eachtime a cherished image crumbles from ageor is shattered by some lightning-stroke oftruth from a cloud electric with doubt.This is why we fade and wither as theleaf. Could we but sweep aside the wreckwithout dismay and raise a new idol fromthe overflowing certainty of youth, then

indeed should we have eaten from thatother tree in Eden, for the defence ofwhich is set the angel with the flamingsword. But this may not be. Fatuously westake our souls on each new creation—deeming that here, in sooth, is one thatshall endure beyond the end of time. Tothe last we are dull to the truth that ouridols are meant to be broken, to give wayto other idols still to be broken.

And so we lose a little of ourselves eachtime an idol falls; and, learning thus todoubt, wistfully, stoically we learn to die,leaving some last idol triumphantlysurviving us. For—and this is the thirdlesson from that tree of Truth—we learnto doubt, not the perfection of our idols,but the divinity of their creator. And it

would seem that this is quite as it shouldbe. So long as the idol-maker will be aslave to his creatures, so long should theidol survive and the maker go back touseful dust. Whereas, did he doubt hisidols and never himself—but this ismostly a secret, for not many commonidolmongers will cross that last fence tothe west, beyond the second field, wherethe cattle are strange and the hour so latethat one must turn back for bed andsupper.

To one who accepts the simple truth thusput down precisely, it will be apparentthat the little boy was destined to see morethan one idol blasted before his eyes; yet,also, that he was not come to the foolishcaution of the wise, whom failure leads to

doubt their own powers—as if we werenot meant to fail in our idols forever!Being, then, not come to this spiritualdecrepitude, fitted still to exercise ablessed contempt for the Wisdom of theAges, it is plain that he could as yet see anidol go to bits without dismay, consciousonly of the need for a new and a betterone.

Not all one's idols are shattered in a day.This were a catastrophe that might wrencheven youth's divine credulity.

Not until another year had gone, with itsheavy-gaited school-months and itsgalloping vacation-days, did the little boycome to understand that Santa Claus wasnot a real presence. And instead ofwailing over the ruins of this idol, he

brought a sturdy faith to bear, building inits place something unseen and unheard ofany save himself—an idol discernibleonly by him, but none the less real for that.

The Imp with the hammer being norespecter of dignities, the idol of the FrontRoom fell next, increasing the heap ofruins that was gathering about his feet.Tragically came a day one spring, a cold,cloudy, rational day, it seemed, when theFront Room went down; for the little boysaw all its sanctities violated, itsmysteries laid bare. And the Front Roombecame a mere front room. Its shutterswere opened and its windows raised to letin light and common fresh air; its carpetwas on the line outside to be scourged ofdust; the black, formidable furniture was

out on the wide porch to be re-varnished,like any common furniture, plainly needingit; the vases of dyed grass might behandled without risk; and the dark spiritthat had seemed to be in and over all wasvanished. Even the majestic Ark of theCovenant, which the sinful Uzza once diedfor so much as touching reverently, wasnow seen to be an ordinary stove for theburning of anthracite coal, to be rattledprofanely and polished for an extraquarter by Sherman Tranquillity Tylerafter he had finished whitewashing thecellar. Fearlessly the little boy, grownsomewhat bigger now, walked among thedébris of this idol, stamping the floor,sounding the walls, detecting cracks in theceiling, spots on the wall-paper andcobwebs in the corners. Yet serene amid

the ruins towered his valiant spirit,conscious under the catastrophe of itspower to build other and yet stauncheridols.

Thus was it one day to stretch itself withnew power amid the base ruins of CousinBill J., though the time was mercifullydeferred—that his soul might gain strengthin worship to put away even that which itworshipped when the day of new truthdawned.

When Cousin Bill J., in the waning of thatfirst winter, began actually to refine hisown superlative elegance by spraying hissuperior garments with perfume, bymunching tiny confections reputed to scentthe breath desirably, by a more diligentgrooming of the always superb moustache,

the little boy suspected no motive. He sawthese works only as the outward signs ofan inward grace that must be everincreasing. So it came that his amazementwas above that of all other persons when,at Spring's first breath of honeyedfragrance, Cousin Bill J. went to be thehusband of Miss Alvira Abney. He hadnot failed to observe that Miss Alvirasang alto, in the choir, out of the samebook from which Cousin Bill J. producedhis exquisite tenor. But he had reasonednothing from this, beyond, perhaps, thethought that Miss Alvira made a poorfigure beside her magnificent companion,even if her bonnet was always the gayestbonnet in church, trembling through everyseason with the blossoms of some agelessspringtime. For the rest, Miss Alvira's

face and hair and eyes seemed to be allone colour, very pale, and her hands werelong and thin, with far too many bones inthem for human hands, the little boythought.

Yet when he learned that the woman wasnot without merit in the sight of his clear-eyed hero, he, too, gave her his favour. Atthe marriage he felt in his heart a certainhigh, pure joy that must have been akin tothat in the bride's own heart, for theirfaces seemed to speak much alike.

Tensely the little boy listened to the wordsthat united these two, understandingperfectly from questions that his heroendowed the woman at his side with allhis worldly goods. Even a lesspracticable person than Miss Alvira

would have acquired distinction in thislight—being endowed with the gold horse,to say nothing of the carven cigar-holderor the precious jewel in the scarlet cravat.Probably now she would be able to throwher thumbs out of joint, too!

But to the little boy chiefly the thing meantthat Cousin Bill J. would stay close athand, to be a joy forever in his sight andlend importance to the town of Edom. Forhis hero was to go and live in the neatrooms of Miss Alvira over her millineryand dressmaking shop, and never return tothe scenes of his early prowess.

After the wedding the little boy, on hisway to school of a morning, would watchfor Cousin Bill J. to wheel out on thesidewalk the high glass case in which

Miss Alvira had arranged her prettydisplay of flowered bonnets. And slowlyit came to life in his understanding thatbetween the not irksome task of wheelingout this case in the morning and wheelingit back at night, Cousin Bill J. nowenjoyed the liberty that a man of his partsdeserved. He was free at last to sit aboutin the stores of the village, or to enthronehimself publicly before them in clementweather, at which time his opinion upon ahorse, or any other matter whatsoever,could be had for the asking. Nor would hebe invincibly reticent upon the subject ofthose early exploits which had once set allof Chautauqua County marvelling at hisstrength.

At first the little boy was stung with

jealousy at this. Later he came to rejoicein the very circumstance that had broughthim pain. If his hero could not be all his,at least the world would have to blinkeven as he had blinked, in the dazzlinglight of his excellences—yes, and smartunder the lash of his unequalled sarcasm.

It should, perhaps, be said that dissolutionby slow poison is not infrequently the fateof an idol.

Doubtless there was never a certain day ofwhich the little boy could have said "thatwas the first time Cousin Bill J. began toseem different." Yet there came a momentwhen all was changed—a time ofquestion, doubt, conviction; a terriblehour, in short, when, face to face with hishero, he suffered the deep hurt of knowing

that mentally, morally, and evenesthetically, he himself was the superiorof Cousin Bill J.

He could remember that first he had hearda caller say to Clytie of Miss Alvira,"Why, they do say the poor thing has to godown those back stairs and actually splither own kindlings—with that healthyloafer setting around in the good clothesshe buys him, in the back room of thatdrug-store from morning till night. Andwhat's worse, he's been seen with thateldest——"

Here the caller's eyes had briefly shiftedsidewise at the small listener, whereuponClytie had urged him to run along and playlike a good boy. He pondered at lengththat which he had overheard and then he

went to Miss Alvira's wood-pile at thefoot of her back stairs, reached by turningup the alley from Main Street. He split alarge pile of kindling for her. He wouldhave been glad to do this each day, hadnot Miss Alvira proved to be lacking indelicacy. Instead of ignoring him, whenshe saw him from her back window,where she was second-fitting SamanthaRexford's pink waist, she came out withher mouth full of pins and gave him fivecents and tried to kiss him. Of course, henever went back again. If that was thekind she was she could go on doing thework herself. He was no Ralph Overtonor Ben Holt, to be shamed that way andmade to feel that he had been Doing Good,and be spoken of all the time as "ourHero."

As for Cousin Bill J., of course he was aloafer! Who wouldn't be if he had thechance? But it was false and cruel to saythat he was a healthy loafer. When CousinBill J. was healthy he had been able to fellan ox with one blow of his fist.

Nor was he disturbed seriously byrumours that his hero was a "come-outer";that instead of attending church with MissAlvira he could be heard at the barber-shop of a Sabbath morning, agreeing withMilo Barrus that God might have made theworld in six days and rested on theseventh; but he couldn't have made thewhale swallow Jonah, because it wasagainst reason and nature; and, if youfound one part of the Bible wasn't so, howcould you tell the rest of it wasn't a lot of

grandmother's tales?

Nor did he feel anything but sympathy fora helpless man imposed upon when heheard Mrs. Squire Cumpston say to Clytie,"Do you know that lazy brute has herworked to a mere shadow; she just sits inthat shop all day long and lets tears fallevery minute or so on her work. Shespoiled five-eighths of a yard of three-inch lavender satin ribbon that way, thatwas going on to Mrs. Beasley's second-mourning bonnet. And she's had to cut himdown to twenty-five cents a day forspending-money, and order the stores notto trust him one cent on her account."

He was sorry to have Miss Alvira cryingso much. It must be a sloppy business,making her hats and things. But what did

the woman expect of a man like CousinBill J., anyway?

Yet somehow it came after a few years—the new light upon his old idol. One dayhe found that he neither resented norquestioned a thing he heard Clytie herselfsay about Cousin Bill J.: "Why, he don'tknow as much as a goat." Here shereconsidered, with an air of wanting to beentirely fair:—"Well, not as much as agoat really ought to know!" And when heoverheard old Squire Cumpston saying onthe street, a few days later, "Of all God'smean creatures, the meanest is a malehuman that can keep his health on themoney a woman earns!" it was no shock,though he knew that Cousin Bill J. wasmeant.

Departed then was the glory of his hero,his splendid dimensions shrunk, hiseffective lustre dulled, his perfectmoustache rusted and scraggly, his chinweakened, his pale blue eyes seen to be inforce like those of a china doll.

He heard with interest that SquireCumpston had urged Miss Alvira todivorce her husband, that she had refused,declaring God had joined her to CousinBill J. and that no man might put themasunder; that marriage had been raised byChrist to the dignity of a sacrament andwas now indissoluble—an emblem,indeed, of Christ's union with His Church;and that, as she had made her bed, sowould she lie upon it.

Nor was the boy alone in regarding as a

direct manifestation of Providence thesudden removal of Cousin Bill J. from thislife by means of pneumonia. For MissAlvira had ever been esteemed andrespected even by those who consideredthat she sang alto half a note off, while herhusband had gradually acquired thedisesteem of almost the entire village ofEdom. Many, indeed, went so far as toconsider him a reproach to his sex.

Yet there were a few who said that even apretended observance of the decencieswould have been better. Miss Alviradisagreed with them, however, and afterall, as the village wag, Elias Cuthbert,said in the post-office next day, "It washer funeral." For Miss Alvira had madeno pretense to God; and, what is infinitely

harder, she would make none to the world.She rode to the last resting-place of herhusband— Elias also made a funny jokeabout his having merely changed resting-places—decked in a bonnet on whichwere many blossoms. She had worn itthrough years when her heart mourned andlife was bitter, when it seemed that Godfrom His infinity had chosen her to sufferthe cruellest hurts a woman may know—and now that He had set her free she wasnot the one to pretend grief with somelying pall of crêpe. And on the new bonnetshe wore to church, the first Sabbath after,there still flowered above her somewhatdrawn face the blossoms of an endlessgirlhood, as if they were rooted in hervery heart. Beneath these blossoms shesang her alto—such as it was—with just a

hint of tossing defiance. Yet there was noneed for that. Edom thought well of her.

No one was known to have mourned thedeparted save an inferior dog he had madehis own and been kind to; but this creaturehad little sympathy or notice, though hewas said to have waited three days andthree nights on the new earth that toppedthe grave of Cousin Bill J. For, quite asidefrom his unfortunate connection, he hadnot been thought well of as a dog.

CHAPTER X

The Passing of the Gratcher;and Another

From year to year the perfect father cameto Edom to be a week with his children.And though from visit to visit there wereexternal variations in him, his genial andrefreshing spirit was changeless. When hisgarments were appreciably less regal,even to the kind eye of his younger son;when his hat was not all one might wish;the boots less than excellent; the pricelesswatch-chain absent, or moored to a merebunch of aimless keys, though the bountyfrom his pockets was an irregular andminute trickle of copper exclusively, thelittle boy strutted as proudly by his side,worshipping him as loyally, as when these

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outer affairs were quite the reverse. Yethe could not avoid being sensible of thefluctuations.

One year the parent would come with thelong hair of one who, having been brotherto the red Indian for years, has wormedfrom his medicine man the choicest secretof his mysterious pharmacopæia, and whowould out of love for suffering humanityplace this within the reach of all for anominal consideration.

Another year he would be shorn of thesweeping moustache and much of thetawny hair, and the little boy wouldunderstand that he had travelledextensively with a Mr. Haverly, singinghis songs each evening in large cities, andbeing spoken of as "the phenomenal

California baritone." His admiring sonenvied the fortunate people of those cities.

Again he would be touring the world ofcities with some simple article ofhousehold use which, from his luxuriousbarouche, he was merely introducing forthe manufacturers—perhaps a rarecleaning-fluid, a silver-polish, or thatingenious tool which will sharpen knivesand cut glass, this being, indeed, one ofhis prized staples. It appeared—so thelittle boy heard him tell Milo Barrus—thatfew men could resist buying a tool withwhich he actually cut a pane of glass intostrips before their eyes; that one beholdingthe sea of hands waving frantically up tohim with quarters in them, after hisdemonstration, would have reason to

believe that all men had occasion to sliceoff a strip of glass every day or so. Insteadof this, as an observer of domestic andprofessional life, he believed that out ofthe thousands to whom he had sold thistool, not ten had ever needed to cut glass,nor ever would.

There was another who continuedindifferent to the personal estate of thisfather. This was Grandfather Delcher,who had never seen him since that bleakday when he had tried to bury the memoryof his daughter. When the perfect fathercame to Edom the grandfather went to hisroom and kept there so closely that neitherever beheld the other. The little boy wasmuch puzzled by this apparentlyintentional avoidance of each other by two

men of such rare distinction, and duringthe early visits of his father he was fruitfulof suggestion for bringing them together.But when he came to understand that theyremained apart by wish of the elder man,he was troubled. He ceased then allefforts to arrange a meeting to which hehad looked forward with pride in hisoffice of exhibiting each personage to theother. But he was grieved toward hisgrandfather, becoming sharp and evendisdainful to the queer, silent old man, atthose times when the father was in thevillage. He could have no love and butlittle friendliness for one who slighted hisdear father. And so a breach widenedbetween them from year to year, as thechild grew stouter fibre into his sentimentsof loyalty and justice.

Meantime, age crept upon the little boy,relentlessly depriving him of this or thatbeloved idol, yet not unkindly leavingwith him the pliant vitality that couldfashion others to be still more warmlycherished.

With Nancy, on afternoons when coolshadows lay across the lawn betweentheir houses, he often discussed thesematters of life. Nancy herself had not beenspared the common fate. Being now amere graceless rudiment of humanity, allspindling arms and legs, save for apuckered, freckled face, she was past thewitless time of expecting to pick up a birdwith a broken wing and find it a fairygodmother who would give her threewishes. It was more plausible now that a

prince, "all dressed up in shiny PrinceClothes," would come riding up on acreamy white horse, lift her to the saddlein front of him and gallop off, calling her"My beautiful darling!" while Madmasel,her uncle, and Betsy, the cook, danced upand down on the front piazza impotentlyshouting "Help!" She suspected then, whenit was too late, that certain people wouldbitterly wish they had acted in a differentmanner. If this did not happen soon, shemeant to go into a convent where shewould not be forever told things for herown good by those arrogantly pretendingto know better, and where she coulddevote a quiet life to the bringing up of herchildren.

The little boy sympathised with her. He

knew what it was to be disappointed inone's family. The family he would havechosen for his own was that of which twoexcellent views were given on the circusbills. In one picture they stood in line,maddeningly beautiful in their pink tights,ranging from the tall father and motherdown through four children to a small boythat always looked much like himself. Inthe other picture these meritorious personswere flying dizzily through the air at thevery top of the great tent, from trapeze totrapeze, with the littlest boy happily in thegreatest danger, midway in the airbetween the two proud parents, who werehurling him back and forth.

It was absurd to think of anything like thisin connection with a family of which only

one member had either courage orambition. One had only to study Clytie orGrandfather Delcher a few moments to seehow hopeless it all was.

The next best life to be aspired to was thatof a house-painter, who could climb aboutunchided on the frailest of high scaffolds,swing from the dizziest cupola, or swayjauntily at the top of the longest ladder—always without the least concern whetherhe spilled paint on his clothes or not.

Then, all in a half-hour, one afternoon,both he and Nancy seemed to cross achasm of growth so wide that one thrilledto look back to the farther side where allobjects showed little and all interestswere juvenile. And this phenomenon,signalised by the passing of the Gratcher,

came in this wise. As they rested fromplay—this being a time when the Gratcherwas most likely to be seen approaching byhim of the Gratcher-eye, the usual alarmwas given, followed by the usualunbreathing silence. The little boy fixedlybent his magic eye around the corner ofthe house, the little girl scrambling to himover the grass to clutch one of his arms, tolisten fearfully for the setting of themonster's crutches at the end of eachstride, to feel if the earth trembled, as itoften distinctly did, under his awful tread.

Wider grew the eyes of both at each "Nowhe's nearer still!" of the little boy, until atlast the girl must hide her head lest she seethat awful face leering past the corner.For, once the Gratcher's eye met yours

fairly, he caught you in an instant andworked his will. This was to pick you upand look at you on all sides at once withthe eyes in his finger-ends, which tickledyou so that you lost your mind.

But now, at the shrillest and tensest reportof progress from the gifted watcher, all ina wondrous second of realisation, theyturned to look into each other's eyes— andtheir ecstasy of terror was gone in thequick little self-conscious laughs theygave. It was all at once as if two grown-ups had in a flash divined that they hadbeen playing at a childish game undersome spell. The moment was not withoutembarrassment, because of their havingcaught themselves in the very act andfrenzy of showing terror of this clumsy

fiction. Foolishly they averted theirglances, after that first little laugh ofsudden realisation; but again their eyesmet, and this time they laughed loud andlong with a joy that took away not only allfears of the Gratcher forever, but theirfirst embarrassment of themselves. Then,with no word of the matter whatsoever,each knowing that the other understood,they began to talk of life again, feelingolder and wiser, which truly they were.

For, though many in time wax brave tobeard their Gratcher even in his lair, onlythe very wise learn this— that the bestway to be rid of him is to laugh him away—that no Gratcher ever fashioned by theingenuity of terror-loving humans can keephis evil power over one to whom he has

become funny.

The passing of the Gratcher had left nopedestal crying for another idol. In itsstead, for his own chastening and with allreverence, the little boy erected the spiritof that God which the Bible tells of, whois all-wise and loving, yet nosentimentalist, as witness his suddendevastations among the first-born of allthings, from white rabbits to men.

But an idol next went down that not onlyleft a wretched vacancy in the boy'spantheon, but fell against his heart andmade an ugly wound. It was as if he hadbecome suddenly clear-seeing on that daywhen the Gratcher shrivelled in the blastof his laugh.

A little later came the father on his annual

visit, and the dire thing was done. Themost ancient and honoured of all the idolsfell with a crash. A perfect father was lostin some common, swaggering, loud-voiced, street-mannered creature,grotesquely self-satisfied, of a cheap,shabby smartness, who came flauntingthose things he should not have flaunted,and proclaiming in every turn of hisshowy head his lack of those thingswithout which the little boy now saw noone could be a gentleman.

He cried in his bed that night, after futileefforts to believe that some fearful changehad been wrought in his father. But hismemory of former visits was scrupulouslyphotographic—phonographic even. Herecalled from the past certain effects once

keenly joyed in that now made his cheeksburn. The things rioted brutally beforehim, until it seemed that something insideof him strove to suppress them—as if ashamed hand reached out from his heart tobrush the whole offense into decent hidingwith one quick sweep.

This time he took care that Nancy shouldnot meet his father. Yet he walked thestreets with him as before—walkingdefiantly and with shame those streetsthrough which he had once led the perfectfather in festal parade, to receive theapplause of a respectful populace. Nowhe went forth awkwardly, doggedly, keenfor signs that others saw what he did, andquick to burn with bitter, unreasoningresentment, when he detected that they did

so. Once his father rallied him upon his"grumpiness"; then he grew sullen—though trying to smile—thinking withmortification of his grandfather. Heunderstood the old man now.

He was glad when the week came to anend. Bruised, bewildered, shamed, butloyal still and resentful toward others whomight see as he did, he was glad when hisfather went—this time as ProfessorAlfiretti, doing a twenty-minute turn ofhypnotism and mind-reading with the GusLevy All-Star Shamrock Vaudeville,playing the "ten-twenty-thirties," whateverthey were!

CHAPTER XI

The Strong Person'sNarrative

Near the close of the following wintercame news of the father's death. In sometown of which the boy had never heard, inanother State, a ramshackle woodentheatre had burned one night and the fatherhad perished in the fire through his ownfoolhardiness. The news came by twochannels: first, a brief and unilluminatingparagraph in the newspaper, giving littlemore than the fact itself.

But three days later came a friend of thefather, bringing his few poor effects and afull relation of the matter. He was aperson of kind heart, evidently, to whomthe father had spoken much of his boys inEdom —a bulky, cushiony, youngish manwho was billed on the advertising postersof the Gus Levy All-Star ShamrockVaudeville as "Samson the Second," witha portrait of himself supporting on themighty arch of his chest a grand piano,upon which were superimposed threesizable and busy violinists.

He told his tale to the two boys andClytie, Grandfather Delcher havingwished to hear no more of the occurrence.

"You understan', it was like this now," hebegan, after having with a calculating eye

rejected two proffered chairs of delicatestructure and selected a stout woodenrocker into which he settled tentatively, asone whom experience had taught todistrust most of the chairs in common use.

"The people in front had got out all right,the fire havin' started on the stage from thestrip-light, and also our people had got outthrough the little stage-entrance, thoughhavin' to leave many of our props—a goodcoat I had to lose meself, fur-lined aroundthe collar, by way of helpin' the SistersDevere get out their box of accordions thatthey done a Dutch Daly act with for anenn-core. Well, as I was sayin', we'd allhustled down these back stairs—they wasalready red hot and smokin' up good, youunderstan', and there we was shiverin'

outside in the snow, kind of rattled, and nowonder, at that, and the ladies of thetroupe histurrical —it had come like aquick-change, you understan', when all ofa sudden up in the air goes the OriginalKelly. Say, he lets out a yell for your life—'Oh, my God!' he says, 'my kids—upthere,' pointin' to where the little flameswas spittin' out through the side like afire-eatin' act. Then down he flops ontohis knees in the snow, prayin' like the—prayin' like mad, you understan', andcallin' on the blessed Virgin to save littlePatsy, who was just gittin' good with hisdrum-major act and whirlin' a fake musket—and also little Joseph, who was learnin'to do some card-tricks that wasn't so bad.Well, so everybody begins to screamlouder and run this way and that, you

understan', callin' the kids and thinkin'Kelly was nutty, because they must 'a gotout. But Kelly keeps right on prayin' to theholy Virgin, the tears runnin' down hismake-up—say, he looked awful, on thedead! And then we hears another yell, andhere was Prof. at the window with one ofthe kids, sure enough. He'd got up themtwo flights of stairs, though they was allred smoky, like when you see fire throughsmoke. Well, he motions to catch the kid,so we snatches a cloak off one of the girlsand holds it out between us, youunderstan', while he leans out and dropsthe kid into it, all safe and sound.

"Just then we seen the place all light upback of him, and we yelled to him to jump,too—he could 'a saved himself, you

understan', but he waves his hand andshook his head—say, lookin' funny, too,with his mus-tache half burned off, and weseen him go back out of sight for the otherlittle Kelly—Kelly still promisin' to giveup all he had to the Virgin if she saved hisboys.

"Well, for a minute the crowd kep' still,kind 'a holdin' its breath, you understan',till the Prof.'d come back with the otherkid—and holdin' it and holdin' it till thefire gits brighter and brighter through thewindow—and—nothin' happens, youunderstan'—just the fire keeps on gittin'busy. Honest, I begun to feel shaky, butthen up comes one of these day-after-to-morrow fire-departments, like they havein them towns, with some fine painted

ladders and a nice new hose-cart, andthere was great doings with these Silasesscreamin' to each other a foot awaythrough their fire-trumpets, only the stairshad been ablaze ever since the Prof. gotup 'em, and before any one does anythingthe whole inside caves in and the blazegoes way up to the sky.

"Well, of course, that settles it, youunderstan'—about the little Kelly and theProf. We drags the original Kelly away toa drug-store on the corner of the nextblock, where they was workin' over thekid Prof. saved —it was Patsy—andKelly was crazy; but the Doc. was bringin'the kid around all right, when one of theMiss Deveres, she has to come nutty all toonce—say, she sounded like the parrot-

house in Central Park, laughin' till you'dthink she'd bust, only it sounded like shewas cryin' at the same time, and screamin'out at the top of her voice, 'Oh, he lookedso damned funny with his mus-tacheburned off! Oh, he looked so damnedfunny with his mus-tache burned off!'—way up high like that, over and over.Well, so she has to be held down till theDoc. jabs her arm full of knockouts.Honest, I needed the dope myself for fairby that time, what with the lady bein' thatway I'm 'a tellin' you, and Kelly, the crazyIrishman—I could hear him off in onecorner givin' his reg'ler stunt about hisfriend, O'Houlihan, lately landed andlookin' for work, comes to a sausagefactory and goes up to the boss and says,'Begobs!'—you know the old gag—say, I

run out in the snow and looked over to thecrowd around the fire and thought of Prof.pokin' around in that dressin'-room forKelly's other kid, when he might 'a jumpedafter he got the first one, and, say, this isno kid—first thing I knew I begin to bawllike a baby.

"Well, as I was sayin', there I am and all Ican see through the fog is one 'a these herebig lighted signs down the street with'George's Place' on it, and a pitcher of abig glass of beer. Me to George's, at once.When Levy himself finds me there, aboutdaylight, I'm tryin' to tell a gang of Silaseshow it all happened and chokin' up everytime so's I have to have another.

"Well, of course, we break up next day.Kelly tells me, after he gits right again,

that little Patsy was saved by havin' one 'athese here scapulars on—he shows it tome hanging around the kid's neck, insidehis clothes. He says little Joseph must 'aleft his off, or he'd 'a' been saved, too. Heshowed me a piece in one 'a these littlereligious books that says there wasnothing annoyed the devil like a scapular—that a man can't be burned or done dirtto in no way if he wears one. I says it's apity the Prof. didn't have one on, but Kellysays they won't work for Protestants. But Idon't know—I never purtended to be goodon these propositions of religious matters.And there wasn't any chance of findin' thekid to prove if Kelly had it right or not.

"But the Prof. he was certainly a great boyfor puttin' up three-sheets about his own

two kids; anybody that would listen—friend or stranger—made no difference tohim. He starred 'em to anybody, youunderstan'—what corkers they was, andall like that. It seemed like Kelly's havin'two kids also kind 'a touched on hisfeelin's. Honest, I ain't ever got so workedup over anything before in me whole life."

When this person had gone the old mancalled the two boys to his room andprayed with them; keeping the younger tosit with him a long time afterward, as iffeeling that his was the heavier heart.

CHAPTER XII

A New Theory of a CertainWicked Man

The time of the first sorrow was difficultfor the boy. There was that first hard sleepafter one we love has gone—in which wemust always dream that it is not true—asleep from which we awaken to suffer allthe shock of it again. Then came blacknights when the perfect love for theperfect father came back in all its earlytenderness to cry the little boy to sleep.Yet it went rapidly enough at last, as timesof sorrow go for the young. There even

came a day when he found in a secretplace of his heart a chastened, hopefulinquiry if all might not have been for thebest. He had loved his father—there hadbeen between them an unbreakable bond;yet this very love had made him suffer atevery thought of him while he was living,whereas now he could love him with alltender memories and with no poisonousmisgivings about future meetings withtheir humiliations. Now his father wasmade perfect in Heaven, and evenGrandfather Delcher—whose aloofnesshere he had ceased to blame—would notrefuse to meet and know him there.

Naturally, then, he turned to hisgrandfather in his great need for a newidol to fill the vacant niche. Aforetime the

old man in his study upstairs had beenlittle more than a gray shadow, a spirit ofgloom, stubbornly imprisoning anotherspirit that would have been kind if it couldhave escaped. But the little boy drew nearto him, and found him curiouslycompanionable. Where once he hadshunned him, he now went freely to thestudy with his lessons or his storybook, orfor talk of any little matter. Hisgrandfather, it seemed, could understandmany things which so old a man couldscarcely have been expected tounderstand. In token of this there wouldsometimes creep over his brown old facea soft light that made it seem as if theremust still be within him somewhere thechild he had once been; as if, perhaps, helooked into the little boy as into a mirror

that threw the sunlight of his own boyhoodinto his time-worn face. Side by side,before the old man's fire, they would talkor muse, since they were friendly enoughto be silent if they liked. Only oneconfidence the little boy could not bringhimself to make: he could not tell the oldman that he no longer felt hard towardhim, as once he had done, for his coldnessto his father; that he had divined —and felta great shame for—the true reason of thatcoldness. But he thought the old man mustunderstand without words. It was hardly amatter to be talked of.

About his other affairs, especially hisearly imaginings and difficulties, he wasfree to talk; about coming to the Feet, andthe Front Room, and being washed in the

blood, and born again—matters that madethe old man wish their intimacy had notbeen so long delayed.

But now they made up for lost time.Patiently and ably he taught the little boythose truths he needed to know; to seek foreternal life through the atoning blood ofthe Saviour, whose part it had been topurchase our redemption from God'swrath by his death on Calvary. Of othermatters more technical: of how the lovethat God of necessity has for His owninfinitely perfect being is the reason andthe measure of the hatred he has for sin.Above all did he teach the little boy howto pray for the grace of effectual calling,in order that, being persuaded of his sinand misery, he might thereafter partake of

justification, adoption, sanctification, andthose several benefits which, in this life,do either accompany or flow from them.They looked forward with equaleagerness to the day when he shouldbecome a great and good man, preachingthe gospel of the crucified Son tospellbound throngs.

"They looked forward with equal

eagerness to the day when he shouldbecome a great and good man."

Together they began again the study of theScriptures, the little boy now enteringseriously upon that work of writingcommentaries which had once engagedAllan. In one of these school-boyishpapers the old man came upon a passagethat impressed him as notable. It seemedto him that there was not only that vein ofpoetic imagination—without which onecannot be a great preacher—but a certainindividual boldness of approach,monstrous in its naïve sentimentality, to besure, but indicating a talent that promisedto mature splendidly.

"Now Jesus told his disciples," it ran,"that he must be crucified before he could

take his seat on the right hand of God andsend to hell those who had rejected him.He told them that one of them would haveto betray him, because it must be like theFather had said. It says at the last supperJesus said, 'The Son of Man goeth as it iswritten of him; but woe unto that man bywhom the Son of Man is betrayed; it hadbeen good for that man if he had not beenborn.'

"Now it says that Satan entered into Judas,but it looks to me more like the angel ofthe Lord might have entered into him, hebeing a good man to start with, or ourLord would not have chosen him to be adisciple. Judas knew for sure, after theLord said this, that one of the discipleshad got to betray the Saviour and go to

hell, where the worm dieth not and the fireis not quenched. Well, Judas loved all thedisciples very much, so he thought hewould be the one and save one of theothers. So he went out and agreed tobetray him to the rulers for thirty pieces ofsilver. He knew if he didn't do it, it mighthave to be Peter, James, or John, or someone the Saviour loved very dearly,because it had to be one of them. So afterit was done and he knew the others weresaved from this foul deed, he went back tothe rulers and threw down their money,and went out and hung himself. If he hadbeen a bad man, it seems more like hewould have spent that money in wickedindulgences, food and drink andentertainments, etc. Of course, Judas knewhe would go to hell for it, so he was not as

lucky as Jesus, who knew he would go toheaven and sit at the right hand of Godwhen he died, which was a differentmatter from Judas's, who would not haveany reward at all but going to hell. It looksto me like poor Judas had ought to bebrought out of hell-fire, and I shall prayJesus to do it when he gets around to it."

However it might be with our Lord'sbetrayer, there was one soul now seen tobe deservedly in hell. Through the patientstudy of the Scriptures as expounded byGrandfather Delcher, the little boypresently found himself accepting withoutdemur the old gentleman's unspoken butsufficiently indicated opinion. His fatherwas in everlasting torment—having beennot only unbaptised, but godless and a

scoffer. With a quickening sense of themajesty of that Spirit infinitely good, anew apprehension of His plan's symmetry,he read the words meant to explain, tocomfort him, silently indicated one day bythe old man:

"Hath not the potter power over the clay,of the same lump to make one vessel untohonour, and another unto dishonour?

"What if God, willing to show His wrath,and to make His power known, enduredwith much long suffering the vessels ofwrath fitted to destruction?

"And that he might make known the richesof his glory on the vessels of mercy,which he had afore prepared unto glory."

It hurt at first, but the young mind hardened

to it dutifully—the big, laughing,swaggering, scoffing father —a device ofGod made for torment, that the power ofthe All-loving might show forth! If thefather had only repented, he might havegone straight to heaven as did Cousin BillJ. For the latter had obtained grace in hislast days, and now sang acceptably beforethe thrones of the Father and the Son. Butthe unbaptised scoffer must burn forever—and the little boy knew at last what wasmeant by "the majesty of God."

BOOK TWO—THEAGE OF REASON

CHAPTER I

The Regrettable Dementia ofa Convalescent

"You know you please me—really youdo!"

Allan, perfect youth of the hazel eyes andtawny locks, bent upon inquiring Nancy alook of wholly pleasant reassurance, asone wishful to persuade her from doubt.

"I'm not joking a bit. When I say youplease me, I mean it."

His look became rather more expansivewith a smile that seemed meant to

sympathise guardedly with her in hernecessary rejoicing.

Meekly, for a long second, Nancy drewthe black curtains of her eyes, murmuringfrom out the friendly gloom:

"It's very good of you, Allan!"

Then, before he could tell reasons for hispleasing, which she divined he was aboutto do, the curtains were up and the eyeswide open to him with a question aboutBernal.

He turned to the house and pointed up tothe two open windows of the study, in andout of which the warm breeze puffed thelimp white curtains.

"He's there, poor chap! He was able to getthat far for the first time yesterday, leaning

on me and Clytie."

"And to think I never knew he was sickuntil we came from town last night. I'dsurely have left the old school and comebefore if I'd heard. I wouldn't have caredwhat Aunt Bell said."

"Eight weeks down, and you know wefound he'd been sick long before he foundit out himself—walking typhoid, theycalled it. He came home from college withme Easter week, and Dr. Merritt put himto bed the moment he clapped eyes onhim. Said it was walking typhoid, and thathe must have been worrying greatly aboutsomething, because his nervous systemwas all run down."

"And he was very ill?"

"Doctor Merritt says he went as far as aman can go and get back at all."

"How dreadful—poor Bernal! Oh, if hehad died!"

"Out of his head for three weeks at a time—raving fearfully. And you know, he'squite like an infant now —says thesimplest things. He laughs at it himself. Hesays he's not sure if he knows how to readand write."

"Poor, dear Bernal!"

With some sudden arousing he studied herface swiftly as she spoke, then continued:

"Yes, Bernal's really an awfully goodchap at bottom. " He turned again to lookup at the study windows. "You know, Iintend to stand by that fellow always—no

matter what he does! Of course, I shall notlet his being my brother blind me to hisfaults— doubtless we all have faults; but Itell you, Nancy, a good heart atones formany things in a man's make-up."

She seemed to be waiting, slightlypuzzled, but he broke off—"Now I musthurry to mail these letters It's good to behome for another summer. You really doplease me, Nance!"

She thought, as he moved off, that Allanwas handsome —more than handsome,indeed. He left an immediate conviction ofhis superb vitality of body and mind, theincarnation of a spirit created to prevail.Featured in almost faultless outline, of acharacter unconsciously, unaffectedlyproclaiming its superior gravity among

human masses, he was a planet destined tohave many satellites and be satellite tonone; an ego of genuine lordliness; apresence at once masterly and decorative.

And yet she was conscious of a note—notpositively of discord, but one still excitinga counter-stream of reflection. She hadobserved that each time Allan turned hishead, ever so little, he had a way ofturning his shoulders with it: the perfecthead and shoulders were swung withalmost a studied unison. And this littlething had pricked her admiration with acertain needle-like suspicion—asuspicion that the young man might be notwholly oblivious of his merits as aspectacle.

Yet this was no matter to permit in one's

mind. For Nancy of the lengthened skirtsand the massed braids was now a personof reserves. Even in that innocentinsolence of first womanhood, with itstentatively malicious, half-consciousflauntings, she was one of reticencestoward the world including herself, withpetticoats of decorum draping the child'sanarchy of thought —her luxuriant youngemotions "done up" sedately with her hair.She was now one to be cautious indeed ofimputations so blunt as this concerningAllan. Besides, how nobly he had spokenof Bernal. Then she wondered why itshould seem noble, for Nancy would bealways a creature to wonder whereanother would accept. She saw it hadseemed noble because Bernal must havebeen up to some deviltry.

This phrase would not be Nancy's—onlyshe knew it to be the way her uncle, forexample, would translate Allan's praise ofhis brother. She hoped Bernal had notbeen very bad—and wondered how bad.

Then she went to him. Her first littleknock brought no answer, nor could she besure that the second did. But she knew itwas loud enough to be heard if the roomwere occupied, so she gently opened thedoor a crack and peeped in. He lay on thebig couch across the room under the openwindow, a scarlet wool dressing-gownon, and a steamer-rug thrown over thelower part of his body. He seemed to belooking out and up to the tree thatappeared above the window. She thoughthe could not have heard her, but he called:

"Clytie!"

She crossed the room and bent a littleover to meet his eyes when he weaklyturned his head on the pillow.

"Nancy!"

He began to laugh, sliding a thin handtoward one of hers. The laugh did not enduntil there were tears in his eyes. Shelaughed with him as a strong-voicedsinger would help a weaker, and he triedto put a friendly force into his grip of thefirm-fleshed little hand he had found.

"Don't be flattered, Nance—it's onlytyphoid emotion, " he said at last, in avoice that sounded strangely unused. "Youdon't really overcome me, you know —thesight of you doesn't unman me as much as

these fond tears might make you suspect. Ishall feel that way when Clytie brings mylunch, too." He smiled and drew her handinto both his own as she sat beside him.

"How plump and warm your hand is—allfull of little whispering pulses. My handsare cold and drowsy and bony, and souninterested! Doesn't fever bring forwarda man's bones in the most shamelessway?"

"Oh, Bernal—but you'll soon have themdecently hidden again—indeed, you'relooking—quite—quite plump." She smiledencouragingly. A sudden new look in hiseyes made her own face serious again.

"Why, Nance, you're rather lovely whenyou smile!"

She smiled.

"Only then?"

He studied her, while she pretended to begrave.

He became as one apart, giving her a longlook of unbiassed appraisal.

"Well—you know—now you have somelittle odds and ends of features—not bad—no, not even half bad, for that matter. Ican see thousands of miles into your eyes—there's a fire smouldering away back inthere —it's all smoky and mysterious afteryou go the first few thousand miles—but, Idon't know—I believe the smile isneeded, Nance. Poor child, I tell you thisas a friend, for your own good—it seemsto make a fine big perfection out of a lot of

little imperfections that are only fairlysatisfactory."

She smiled again, brushing an escapedlock of hair to its home.

"Really, Nance, no one could guess thatmouth till it melts."

"I see—now I shall be going about with anendless, sickening grin. It will come tothat—doubtless I shall be murdered for it—people that do grin that way alwaysmake me feel like murder."

"And they could never guess your eyesuntil the little smile runs up to light theirchandeliers."

"Dear me!—Like a janitor!"

"—or the chin, until the little smile does

curly things all around it——"

"There, now—calm yourself—the doctorwill be here presently—and you know,you're among friends——"

"—or the face itself until those little pinkripples get to chasing each other up tohide in your hair, as they are now. Youknow you're blushing, Nance, so stop it.Remember, it's when you smile;remember, also, that smiles are born, notmade. It's a long time since I've seen you,Nance."

"Two years—we didn't come here lastsummer, you know."

"But you've aged—you're twice thewoman you were —so, on the whole, I'mnot in the least disappointed in you."

"Your sickness seems to have left you—well—in a remarkably unprejudiced stateof mind."

He laughed. "That's the funny part of it.Did they tell you this siege had me foolishfor weeks? Honest, now, Nance, here's acase—how many are two times two?" Hewaited expectantly.

"Are you serious?"

"It seems silly to you, doesn't it—butanswer as if I were a child."

"Well—twice two are four—unless myown mind is at fault."

"There!—now I begin to believe it. Isuppose, now, it couldn't be anything else,could it? Yesterday morning the doctorsaid something was as plain as twice two

are four. You know, the thing rankled inme all day. It seemed to me that twice twoought to be twenty-two. Then I askedClytie and she said it was four, but thatdidn't satisfy me. Of course, Clytemnestrais a dear soul, and I truly, love her, but heradvantages in an educational way havebeen meagre. She could hardly beconsidered an authority in mathematics,even if she is the ideal cook and friend.But I have more faith in your learning,Nance. The doctor's solution seemsplausible, since you've sided with him. Isuppose you could have no motive fordeceiving me?"

She was regarding him with just a littleanxiety, and this he detected.

"It's nothing to worry about, Nance—it's

only funny. I haven't lost my mind oranything, you know—spite of my temperedenthusiasm for your face—but this is it:first there came a fearful shock—something terrible, that shattered me—then it seemed as if that sickness found mybrain like a school-boy's slate with all hislittle problems worked out on it, andwickedly gave it a swipe each side with abig wet sponge. And now I seem to haveforgotten all I ever learned. Clytie was into feed me the inside of a baked potatobefore you came. After I'd fought with herto eat the skin of it— such a beautifulbrown potato-skin, with delicious littlewhite particles still sticking to the insidewhere it hadn't all been dug out—and aftershe had used her strength as no ladyshould, and got it away from me, it came

to me all at once that she was my mother.Then she assured me that she was not, andthat seemed quite reasonable, too. I toldher I loved her enough for a mother,anyway—and the poor thing giggled."

"Still, you have your lucid moments."

"Ah, still thinking about the face? Youmean I'm lucid when you smile, and daffywhen you don't. But that's a case of it—your face——"

"My face a case of what? You're gettingcommercial —even shoppy. Really, if thiscontinues, Mr. Linford, I shall be obliged——"

"A case of it—of this blankness of mine.Instead of continuing my early prejudice,which I now recall was preposterously in

your favour, I survey you coldly for thefirst time. You know I'm afraid to look atprint for fear I've forgotten how to read."

"Nonsense!"

"No—I tell you I feel exactly like one ofthose chaps from another planet, who arealways reaching here in the H.G. Wells'sstories—a gentleman of fine attainments inhis own planet, mind you—bland,agreeable, scholarly—with markeddistinction of bearing, and a personalbeauty rare even on a planet where theflaunting of one's secretest bones is heldto betoken the only beauty—youunderstand that?——Well, I come here,and everything is different—ideals ofbeauty, people absurdly holding for fleshon their bones, for example —numbers,

language, institutions, everything. Ofcourse, it puzzles me a little, but see thevalue I ought to be to the world, having amature mind, yet one as clean ofpreconceptions and prejudice as a new-born babe's."

"Oh, so that is why you could see that I'mnot——"

"Also, why I could see that you are—that's it, smile! Nance, you are a dear,when you smile—you make a man feel sostrong and protecting. But if you knew allthe queer things I've thought in the lastweek about time and people and theworld. This morning I woke up madbecause I'd been cheated out of the past.Where is all the past, Nance? There's justas much past somewhere as there is future

—if one's soul has no end, it had nobeginning. Why not worry about the pastas we do about the future? First thing I'mgoing to do—start a Worry-About-the-Past Club, with dues and a president, andby-laws and things!"

"Don't you think I'd better send Clytie,now?"

"No; please wait a minute." He clutchedher hand with a new strength, and raisedon his elbow to face her, then, speakinglower:

"Nance, you know I've had a feeling itwasn't the right thing to ask the oldgentleman this—he might think I hadn'tbeen studying at college—but you tell me—what is this about the atoning blood ofJesus Christ? It was a phrase he used the

other day, and it stuck in my mind."

"Bernal—you surely know!"

"Truly I don't—it seems a bad dream I'vehad some time—that's all—some awfuldream about my father."

"It was the part of the Saviour to purchaseour redemption by his death on Calvary."

"Our redemption from what?"

"From sin, to be sure."

"What sin?"

"Why, our sin, of course—the sin of Adamwhich comes down to us."

"You say this Jesus purchased ourredemption from that sin by dying?"

"Yes."

"From whom did he purchase it?"

"Oh, dear—this is like a catechism—fromGod, of course."

"The God that made Adam?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, yes—now I seem to remember him—he was supposed to make people, and thencurse them, wasn't he? And so he had tohave his son killed before he couldforgive Adam for our sins?"

"No; before he could forgive us forAdam's sin, which descended to us."

"Came down like an entail, eh?... Adamcouldn't disinherit us? Well, how did thisGod have his son die?"

"Why, Bernal—you must remember, dear

—you knew so well—don't you know hewas crucified?"

"To be sure I do—how stupid! And wasG o d very cheerful after that? No moretrouble about Adam or anything?"

"You must hush—I can't tell you aboutthese things —wait till your grandfathercomes."

"No, I want to have it from you, Nance—grandad would think I'd been slighting theclassics."

"Well, God takes to heaven with him thosewho believe."

"Believe what?"

"Who believe that Jesus was his onlybegotten son."

"What does he do with those who don'tbelieve it?"

"They—they——Oh, I don't know—really, Bernal, I must go now."

"Just a minute, Nance!" He clutched moretightly the hand he had been holding. "I seenow! I must be remembering something Iknew—something that brought me downsick. If a man doesn't believe God wascapable of becoming so enraged withAdam that only the bloody death of hisown son would appease his anger towardus, he sends that man where —where theworm doeth something or other—what isit? Oh, well!—of course, it's of noimportance—only it came to me it wassomething I ought to remember if grandadshould ask me about it. What a quaint

belief it must have been."

"Oh, I must go!—let me, now."

"Don't you find it interesting, Nance,rummaging among these musty oldreligions of a dead past— though I admitthat this one is less pleasant to study thanmost of the others. This god seems to lackthe majesty and beauty of the Greek andthe integrity of the Norse gods. In fact, hewas too crude to be funny —by the way,what is it I seem to recall, about eating theflesh and drinking the blood of the son?—'unless ye eat the flesh of the son—'"

She drew her hand from his now andarose in some dismay. He lay back uponhis pillow, smiling.

"Not very agreeable, is it, Nance? Well,

come again, and I'll tell you about some ofthe pleasanter old faiths next time—Iremember now that they interested me alot before I was sick."

"You're sure I shouldn't send Clytie orsome one?" She looked down at himanxiously, putting her hand on hisforehead. He put one of his own lightlyover hers.

"No, no, thank you! It's not near time yetfor the next baked potato. If Clytie doesn'tgive up the skin of this one I shall betempted to forget that she's a woman.There, I hear grandad coming, so youwon't be leaving me alone."

Grandfather Delcher came in cheerily asNancy left the room.

"Resting, my boy? That's good. You lookbrighter already—Nancy must comeoften."

He took Nancy's chair by the couch andbegan the reading of his morning's mail.Bernal lay still with eyes closed duringthe reading of several letters; but when theold man opened out a newspaper withlittle rustlings and pats, he turned to him.

"Well, my boy?"

"I've been thinking of something funny.You know, my memory is still freakish,and things come back in splotches. Justnow I was recalling a primitive Braziliantribe in whose language the word 'we'means also 'good. 'Others,' which theyexpress by saying 'not we,' means also'evil.' Isn't that a funny trait of early man—

we—good; not we—bad! I suppose ourown tongue is but an elaboration of thatsimple bit of human nature—a training ofpolite vines and flowering shrubs over thecrude lines of it.

"And this tribe—the Bakaïri, it is called—is equally crude in its religion. It istrue, sir, is it not, that the most degradedof the savages tribes resort to humansacrifice in their religious rites?"

"Generally true. Human sacrifice waspractised even by some who were welladvanced, like the Aztecs and Peruvians."

"Well, sir, this Bakaïri tribe believed thatits god demanded a sacrifice yearly, andtheir priests taught them that a certain oneof their number had been sent by their godfor this sacrifice each year; that only by

butchering this particular member of thetribe and— incredible as it sounds—eating his body and drinking his blood,could they avert drouth and pestilence andsecure favours for the year to come. Iremember the historian intimated that itwere well not to incur the displeasure ofany priest; that one doing this might find itfollowed by an unpleasant circumstancewhen the time came for the priests todesignate the next yearly sacrifice."

"Curious, indeed, and most revolting,"assented the old man, laying down hispaper. "You are feeling more cheerful,aren't you—and you look so muchbrighter. Ah, what a mercy of God's youwere spared to me!—you know youbecame my walking-stick when you were

a very little boy—I could hardly go farwithout you now, my son."

"Yes, sir—thank you—I've just beenrecalling some of the older religions—Nancy and I had quite a talk about the oldChristian faith."

"I'm glad indeed. I had sometimes beenled to suspect that Nancy was the least bit—well, frivolous— but I am an old man,and doubtless the things that seem best tome are those I see afar off, their coloursubdued through the years."

"Nancy wasn't a bit frivolous this morning—on the contrary, she seemed for somereason to consider me the frivolous one.She looked shocked at me more than once.Now, about the old Christian faith, youknow—their god was content with one

sacrifice, instead of one each year, thoughhe insisted on having the body eaten andthe blood drunk perpetually. Yet Isuppose, sir, that the Christian god, in thislimiting of the human sacrifice to oneperson, may be said to show a distinctadvance over the god of the Bakaïri,though he seems to have been equally atribal god, whose chief function it was tomake war upon neighbouring tribes."

"Yes, my boy—quite so," replied the oldman most soothingly. He stepped gently tothe door. Halfway down the hall Allanwas about to turn into his room. He came,beckoned by the old man, who said, intones too low for Bernal to hear:

"Go quickly for Dr. Merritt. He's out ofhis head again."

CHAPTER II

Further Distressing Fantasiesof a Clouded Mind

When young Dr. Merritt came, flushed andimportant-looking, greatly concerned bythe reported relapse, he found his patientwith normal pulse and temperature —rational and joyous at his discovery thatthe secret of reading Roman letters wasstill his.

"I was almost afraid to test it, Doctor," heconfessed, smilingly, when the littlethermometer had been taken from between

his lips, "but it's all right—I didn't find asingle strange letter—every last one ofthem meant something—and I knowfigures, too—and now I'm as hungry forprint as I am for baked potatoes. Youknow, never in my life again, after I'm myown master, shall I neglect to eat the skinof my baked potato. When I think of thoseI let go in my careless days of plenty, Igrow heart-sick."

"A little at a time, young man. If they letyou gorge as you'd like to there would beno more use sending for me; you'd be agoner—that's what you'd be! Head feel allright?"

"Fine!—I've settled down to a pleasantreading of Holy Writ. This Old Testamentis mighty interesting to me, though

doubtless I've read it all before."

"It's a very complicated case, but I thinkhe's coming on all right," the doctorassured the alarmed old man outside thedoor. "He may be a little flighty now andthen, but don't pay any attention to him;just soothe him over. He's getting back tohimself—stronger every hour. We oftenhave these things to contend with."

And the doctor, outwardly confident, wentaway to puzzle over the case.

Again the following morning, when Bernalhad leaned his difficult way down to thecouch in the study, the old man wasdismayed by his almost unspeakableaberrations. With no sign of fever, with acool brow and placid pulse, in leveltones, he spoke the words of the mad.

"You know, grandad," he began easily,looking up at the once more placid oldman who sat beside him, "I am just nowrecalling matters that were puzzling memuch before the sickness began to spin myhead about so fast on my shoulders. Theharder I thought, the faster my head wentaround, until it sent my mind all to littlespatters in a circle about me. One thing Ihappened to be puzzling over was how theimpression first became current that thisgod of the Jews was a being of goodness.Such an impression seems to have beentacitly accepted for some centuries afterthe iniquities so typical of him had beendiscountenanced by society—long afterhuman sacrifice was abhorred, and evenafter the sacrificing of animals was held tobe degrading. It's a point that escapes me,

owing to my addled brain; doubtless youcan set me right. At present I can'tconceive how the notion could ever haveoccurred to any one. I now remember thisbook well enough to know that not only islittle good ever recorded of him, but he isso continually barbarous, and soatrociously cruel in his barbarities. Andhe was thought to be all-powerful when heis so pitifully ineffectual, with all hiscrude power—the poor old fellow wasforever bungling—then bungling again inhis efforts to patch up his errors. Indeed,he would be rather a pathetic figure if hewere not so monstrous! Still, there is akind of heathen grandeur about him attimes. He drowns his world full of peoplebecause his first two circumvented him;then he saves another pair, but things go

still worse, so he has to keep smiting theworld right and left, dumb beasts as wellas men; and at last he picks out one tribe,in whose behalf he works a series ofmiracles, that devastated a wide area.How he did love to turn a city over todestruction! And from the cloud's centrehe was constantly boasting of his awfulpower, and scaring people into butcheringlambs and things in his honour. Yet,doubtless, that heathen tribe found its god'good,' and other people formed the habitof calling him good, without thinking muchabout it. They must have felt queer whenthey woke up to the fact that they werecalling infinitely good a god who was notgood, even when judged by their poorhuman standards."

Remembering the physician's instructionsto soothe the patient, the distressed oldman timidly began—

"'For God so loved the world'"—but hewas interrupted by the vivacious one onthe couch.

"That's it—I remember that tradition. Hewas even crude enough to beget a son forhuman sacrifice, giving that son power tocondemn thereafter those who should notdetect his godship through his humanenvelope! That was a rather subtler bit ofbaseness than those he first perpetrated—to send this saving son in such guise thatthe majority of his creatures wouldinevitably reject him! Oh! he was bound tohave his failures and his tortures, wasn'the? You know, I dare say the ancient

Christians called him good because theywere afraid to call him bad. Doubtless theone great spiritual advance that we havemade since the Christian faith prevailedis, that we now worship without fearingwhat we worship."

Once more the distressed old man hadrisen to stand with assumed carelessnessby the door, having writhed miserably inhis chair until he could no longer endurethe profane flood.

"But, truly, that god was, after all, apathetic figure. Imagine him amid the ruinsof his plan, desolate, always foiled by hiscreatures—meeting failure after failurefrom Eden to Calvary—for even thebloody expedient of sending his son to besacrificed did not avail to save his own

chosen people. They unanimously rejectedthe son, if I remember, and so he had to becontent with a handful of the despisedGentiles. A sorrowful old figure of futilityhe is—a fine figure for a big epic, itseems to me. By the way, what was thedate that this religion was laughed away. Ican remember perfectly the downfall ofthe Homeric deities—how many yearsthere were when the common peoplebelieved in the divine origin of theOdyssey, while the educated classes weremore or less discreetly heretical, until atlast the whole Olympian outfit becamepoetic myths. But strangely enough I donot recall just the date when we began todemand a god of dignity and morality."

The old man had been loath to leave the

sufferer. He still stood by the open door tocall to the first passer-by. Now,shudderingly wishful to stem the torrent ofblasphemies, innocent though they were,he ventured cautiously:

"There was Sinai—you forget the tables—the moral law—the ten commandments."

"Sinai, to be sure. Christians used toregard that as an occasion of considerabledignity, didn't they? The time when hegave directions about slavery and divorceand polygamy—he was beautifully broad-minded in all those matters, and to killwitches and to stone an ox that gored anyone, and how to disembowel the lambsused for sacrifice, and what colours to usein the tabernacle."

But the horrified old man had fled. Half an

hour later he returned with Dr. Merritt,relieving Clytie, who had watched outsidethe door and who reported that there hadbeen no signs of violence within.

Again they found a normal pulse andtemperature, and an appetite clamouringfor delicacies of strong meat. Young Dr.Merritt was greatly puzzled.

"I understand the case perfectly," he saidto the old man; "he needs rest and plentyof good nursing—and quiet. We oftenhave these cases. Your head feels allright, doesn't it?" he asked Bernal.

"Fine, Doctor!"

"I thought so." He looked shrewdly at theold man. " Your grandfather had an ideayou might be—perhaps a bit excited."

"No—not a bit. We've had a fine morningchatting over some of the primitivereligions, haven't we, old man?" and hesmiled affectionately up to his grandfather."Hello, Nance, come and sit by me."

The girl had paused in the doorway whilehe spoke, and came now to take his hand,after a look of inquiry at the two men. Thelatter withdrew, the eyes of the old mansadly beseeching the eyes of the physicianfor some definite sign of hope.

Inside, the sufferer lay holding a hand ofNancy between his cheek and the pillow—with intervals of silence and blithespeech. His disordered mind, it appeared,was still pursuing its unfortunate tangent.

"The first ideas are all funny, aren't they,Nance? Genesis in that Christian

mythology we were discussing isn't theonly funny one. There was the old northerncouple who danced on the bones of theearth nine times and made nine pairs ofmen and women; and there were the Greekand his wife who threw stones out of theirark that changed to men; and the Hindu thatsaved the life of a fish, and whom the fishthen saved by fastening his ship to hishorn; and the South Sea fisherman whocaught his hook in the water-god's hair andmade him so angry that he drowned all theworld except the offending fisherman.Aren't they nearly as funny as the god whomade one of his pair out of clay and onefrom a rib, and then became so angry withthem that he must beget a son for them tosacrifice before he would forgive them?Let's think of the pleasanter ones. Do you

know that hymn of the Veda?—'If I goalong trembling like a cloud, have mercy,Almighty, have mercy!'

"'Through want of strength, thou strong andbright God, have I gone wrong. Havemercy, Almighty, have mercy!'

"And Buddha was a pleasant soul, Nance—with stuff in him, too—born a prince,yet leaving his palace to be poor and tostudy the ways of wisdom, untilenlightenment came to him sitting underhis Bo tree. He said faith was the bestwealth here. And, 'Not to commit any sin,to do good and to purify one's mind, that isthe teaching of the awakened'; 'not hatingthose who hate us,' 'free from greed amongthe greedy.' They must have been glad ofBuddhism in their day, teaching them to

honour their parents, to be kind to the sickand poor and sorrowing, to forgive theirenemies and return good for evil. Andthere was funny old Confucius with his'Coarse rice for food, water to drink, thebended arm for a pillow—happiness maybe enjoyed even with these; but withoutvirtue, both riches and honour seem to melike the passing cloud.' Another one of hisis 'In the book of Poetry are three hundredpieces—but the designs of them all mean,"Have no depraved thoughts."' Rathergood for a Chinaman, wasn't it?

"And there was old Zoroaster saying tohis Ormuzd, 'I believe thee, O God! to bethe best thing of all!' and asking forguidance. Ormuzd tells him to be pure inthought, word and deed; to be temperate,

chaste and truthful—and this Ormuzdwould have no lambs sacrificed to him.Life, being his gift, was dear to him. Anddon't forget Mohammed, Nance, that fineold barbarian with the heart of apassionate child, counselling men to live agood life and to strive after the mercy ofGod by fasting, charity and prayer, callingthis the 'Key of Paradise.' He went after apoor blind man whom he had at firstrebuffed, saying 'He is thrice welcome onwhose account my Lord hath reprimandedme.' He was a fine, stubborn old believer,Nance. I wonder if it's not true that theChristians once studied these old chaps totake the taste of their own cruder God outof their minds. What a cruel people theymust have been to make so cruel a God!

"But let's talk of you, Nance—that's it—light the chandeliers in your eyes."

He spoke drowsily now, and lay quiet,patting one of her hands. But presently hewas on one elbow to study her again.

"Nance, the Egyptians worshipped Nature,the Greeks worshipped Beauty, theNorthern chaps worshipped Courage, andthe Christians feared—well, the hereafter,you know—but I'm a Catholic when yousmile."

CHAPTER III

Reason Is Again Enthroned

Slowly the days brought new life to theconvalescent, despite his occasionalattacks of theological astigmatism. Andthese attacks grew less frequent and lessmarked as the poor bones once moreinvolved themselves in firm flesh—to theglad relief of a harried and scandalisedold gentleman whose black forebodingshad daily moved him to visions of themad-house for his best-loved descendant.

Yet there were still dreadful times whenthe young man on the couch blasphemed

placidly by the hour, with an insane air ofassuming that those about him held thesame opinions; as if the Christian religionwere a pricked bubble the adherents ofwhich had long since vanished.

If left by himself he could often be heardchuckling and muttering between chuckles:"I will get me honour upon Pharaoh andall his host. I have hardened his heart andthe heart of his host that I might showthese my signs before him."

Entering the room, the old gentleman mightbe met with:

"I certainly agree with you, sir, in everyrespect— Christianity was an invertebratematerialism of separation —crude,mechanical separation—less spiritual,less ethical, than almost any of the

Oriental faiths. Affirming the brotherhoodof man, yet separating us into a heaven anda hell. Christians cowering before a beingof divided power, half-god and half-devil.Indeed, I remember no religion so non-moral—none that is so baldly a meremechanical device for meeting theprimitive mind's need to set its own tribeapart from all others—or in the latergrowth to separate the sheep from thegoats, by reason of the opinion formed ofcertain evidence. Even schoolboysnowadays know that no moral valueinheres in any opinion formed uponevidence. Yet, I dare say it was doubtlessfor a long period an excellent religion formarauding nations."

Or, again, after a long period of

apparently rational talk, the unfortunateyoung man would break out with, "Andhow childish its wonder-tales were, ofiron made to swim, of a rod turned to aserpent, of a coin found in a fish's mouth,of devils asking to go into swine, of a fig-tree cursed to death because it did notbear fruit out of season—how childish thattale of a virgin mother, who conceived'without sin,' as it is somewhere naïvelyput—an ideal of absolutely flawlessfalsity. Even the great old painters werehelpless before it. They were driven tomake mindless Madonnas, stupid bits offleshy animality. It's not easy to idealisemere physical motherhood. You see, thatwas the wrong, perverted idea ofmotherhood—'conceiving without sin.' It'san unclean dogma in its implications. I

knew somewhere once a man named MiloBarrus—a sort of cheap village atheist, Iremember, but one thing I recall hearinghim say seems now to have a certain crudetruth in it. He said: 'There's my oldmother, seventy-eight this spring, bent,gray, and wasted with the work of raisingus seven children; she's slaved so hard forfifty years that she's worn her wedding-ring to a fine thread, and her hands look asif they had a thousand knuckles and jointsin them. But she smiles like a girl ofsixteen, she was never cross or bitter toone of us hounds, and I believe she nevereven wanted to complain in all her days.And there's a look of noble capacity in herface, of soul dignity, that you never saw inany Madonna's. I tell you no "virginmother" could be as beautiful as my

mother, who bore seven children for loveof my father and for love of the thought ofus.' Isn't it queer, sir, that I remember that—for it seemed only grotesque at the timeI heard it."

It was after this extraordinary speech,uttered with every sign of physicalsoundness, that young Dr. Merritt confidedto the old man when they had left thestudy:

"He's coming on fine, Mr. Delcher. He'lleat himself into shape now in no time; but—I don't know— seems to me you stand alot better show of making a preacher outof his brother. Of course, I may bemistaken —we doctors often are." Thenthe young physician became loftilyhumble: "But it doesn't strike me he'll ever

get his ideas exactly into Presbyterianshape again!"

"But, man, he'll surely be rid of thesedevil's hallucinations?"

"Well, well—perhaps, but I'm almostafraid they're what we doctors call 'fixeddelusions.'"

"But I set my heart so long ago on hispreaching the Word. Oh, I've lookedforward to it so long—and so hard!"

"Well, all you can do now is to feed himand not excite him. We often have thesecases."

The very last of Bernal's utterances thatcould have been reprobated in a well manwas his telling Clytie in the oldgentleman's presence that, whereas in his

boyhood he had pictured the hand of Godas a big black hand reaching down to"remove" people—"the way you weed anonion bed"—he now conceived it to belike her own—"the most beautiful fat, redhand in the world, always patting you ortucking you in, or reaching you somethinggood or pointing to a jar of cookies." Itwas so dangerously close to irreverencethat it made Clytemnestra look stiff andsolemn as she arranged matters on theluncheon tray; yet it was so inoffensive,considering the past, that it madeGrandfather Delcher quite hopeful.

Thereafter, instead of babblingblasphemies, the convalescent becamesilent for the most part, yet cheerful andbeautifully rational when he did speak, so

that fear came gradually to leave the oldman's heart for longer and longerintervals. Indeed, one day when Bernalhad long lain silent, he swept lingeringdoubts from the old man's mind by saying,with a curious little air of embarrassment,yet with a return of that old-time playfulassumption of equality between them—"I'm afraid, old man, I may have been alittle queer in my talk— back there."

The old man's heart leaped with hope atthis, though the acknowledgment struckhim as being inadequate to thecircumstance it referred to.

"You were flighty, boy, now and then," hereplied, in quite the same glossing strainof inadequacy.

"I can't tell you how queerly things came

back to me—some bits of consciousnessand memory came early and some camelate—and they're still struggling along inthat disorderly procession. Even yet I'venot been able to take stock. Old man, Imust have been an awful bore."

"Oh, no—not that, boy!" Then, in gladrelief, he fell upon his knees beside thecouch, praying, in discreetly veiledlanguage, that the pure heart of a babblermight not be held guilty for the utterancesof an irresponsible head.

Yet, after many days of sane quiet andever-renewing strength—days of longwalks in the summer woods or longreadings in the hammock when theshadows lay east of the big house, therecame to be observed in the young man a

certain moody reticence. And when thetime for his return to college was near, hecame again to his disquieted grandfatherone day, saying:

"I think there are some matters I shouldspeak to you about, sir." Had he used theterm "old man," instead of "sir," theremight still have been no cause for alarm.As it was, the grandfather regarded him ina sudden, heart-hurried fear.

"Are the matters, boy, those—those aboutwhich you may have spoken during yoursickness?"

"I believe so, sir."

The old man winced again under the "sir,"when his heart longed for the other term ofplayful familiarity. But he quickly

assumed a lightness of manner to hide theeagerness of his heart's appeal:

"Don't talk now, boy—be advised by me.It's not well for you—you are not strong.Please let me guide you now. Go back toyour studies, put all these matters fromyour mind—study your studies and playyour play. Play harder than you study—you need it more. Play out of doors—youmust have a horse to ride. You havethought too much before your time forthinking. Put away the troublesome things,and live in the flesh as a healthy boyshould. Trust me. When you come to—tothose matters again, they will not troubleyou."

In his eagerness, first one hand had goneto the boy's shoulder, then the other, and

his tones grew warm with pleading, whilethe keen old eyes played as a searchlightover the troubled young face.

"I must tell you at least one thing, sir."

The old man forced a smile around histrembling mouth, and again assumed hislittle jaunty lightness.

"Come, come, boy—not 'sir.' Call me 'oldman' and you shall say anything."

But the boy was constrained, plainly indiscomfort. "I—I can't call you that—justnow—sir."

"Well, if you must, tell me one thing—butonly one! only one, mind you, boy!" Infear, but smiling, he waited.

"Well, sir, it's a shock I suffered just

before I was sick. It came to me one nightwhen I sat down to dinner —fearfullyhungry. I had a thick English chop on theplate before me; and a green salad, oily inits bowl, and crisp, browned potatoes,and a mug of creamy ale. I'd gone to theplace for a treat. I'd been whetting myappetite with nibbles of bread and sips ofale until the other things came; and then,even when I put my knife to the chop—like a blade pushed very slowly into myheart came the thought: 'My father isburning in hell— screaming in agony for adrop of this water which I shall not touchbecause I have ale. He has been in thisagony for years; he will be there forever.'That was enough, sir. I had to leave thelittle feast. I was hungry no longer, thougha moment before it had seemed that I

couldn't wait for it. I walked out into thecold, raw night—walked till neardaylight, with the sweat running off me.And the thing I knew all the time was this:that if I were in hell and my father inheaven, he would blaspheme God to Hisface for a monster and come to hell toburn with me forever—come with a jokeand a song, telling me never to mind, thatwe'd have a fine time there in hell in spiteof everything! That was what I knew of mypoor, cheap, fiddle-playing mountebank ofa father. Just a moment more—this is whatyou must remember of me, in whatever Ihave to say hereafter, that after that night Inever ceased to suffer all the hell myfather could be suffering, and I suffered ituntil my mind went out in that sickness.But, listen now: whatever has happened—

I'm not yet sure what it is—I no longersuffer. Two things only I know: that ourcreed still has my godless, scoffing,unbaptised father in hell, and that my lovefor him—my absolute oneness with him—has not lessened.

"I'll stop there, if you wish, leaving you todivine what other change has taken place."

"There, there," soothed the old man,seizing the shoulders once more with hisstrong grip—"no more now, boy. It was ahard thing, I know. The consciousness ofGod's majesty comes often in that way,and often it overwhelms the unprepared. Itwas hard, but it will leave you more aman; your soul and your faith will bothsurvive. Do what I have told you—as ifyou were once more the puzzled little

Bernal, who never could keep his hairneatly brushed like Allan, and wouldalways moon in corners. Go finish yourcourse. Another year, when your mind hasnew fortitude from your recreated body,we will talk these matters as much as youlike. Yet I will tell you one thing toremember—just one, as you have told meone: You are in a world of law, ofunvarying cause and effect; and theintegrity of this law cannot be destroyed,nor even impaired, by any conceivablerebellion of yours. Yet this material worldof law is but the shadow of the reality, andthat reality is God— the moral law if youplease, as relentless, as inexorable, asimmutable in its succession of cause andeffect as the physical laws more apparentto us; and as little to be overthrown as

physical law by any rebellion ofdisordered sentiment. The word of thisGod and this Law is contained in theScriptures of the Old and NewTestaments, wherein is the only rule todirect us how we may glorify and enjoyHim.

"Now," continued the old man, morelightly, "each of us has something toremember—and let each of us pray for theother. Go, be a good boy—but carelessand happy—for a year."

The old man had his way, and the twoboys went presently back to their studies.

The girl, Nancy, remembered them wellfor the things each had said to her.

Allan, who, though he constantly praised

her, had always the effect of leaving hersmall to herself. "Really, Nance," he said,"without any joking, I believe you have acapacity for living life in its largeraspects."

And on the last day, Bernal had said,"Nance, you remember when we wereboth sorry you couldn't be born again—aboy? Well, from what the old gentlemansays, one learns in time to bow to theways of an inscrutable Providence. I daresay he's right. I can see reasons now, mygirl, why it was well that you were notallowed to meddle with Heaven'sallotment of your sex. I'm glad you had toremain a girl."

One compliment pleased her. The othermade her tremble, though she laughed at it.

CHAPTER IV

A Few Letters

(From Bernal Linford to the ReverendAllan Delcher.)

Dear Grandfather: The college year soonends; also my course. I think you hoped Iwouldn't want again to talk of thosematters. But it isn't so. I am primed andwaiting, and even you, old man, mustlisten to reason. The world of thought hasmade many revolutions since you shutyourself into that study with your weeklychurch paper. So be ready to hear me.

Affectionately,BERNAL LINFORD.

(From the Reverend Allan Delcher toBernal Linford.)

"Lo, this only have I found, that God hathmade man upright, but they have sought outmany inventions." I am sending you a littlebook.

GRANDFATHER.

(From Bernal Linford to the ReverendAllan Delcher.)

Dear Old Man: How am I going to thankyou for the "little book"—for Butler'sAnalogy? Or rather, how shall I forgiveyou for keeping it from me all these years?I see that you acquired it in 1863—and Inever knew! I must tell you that I looked

upon it with suspicion when I unwrappedit—a suspicion that the title did not allay.For I recalled the last time you gave me abook—the year before I came here. Thatbook, my friend, was "Rasselas, Prince ofAbyssinia." I began it with deep respectfor you. I finished with a profound distrustof all Abyssinians and an overwhelminggrief for the untimely demise of Mrs.Johnson —for you had told me that thegood doctor wrote this book to get moneyto bury her. How the circle of mournersfor that estimable woman must havewidened as Rasselas made its way outinto the world! Oh, Grandad, if only theyhad been able to keep her going some wayuntil he needn't have done it! If only shecould have been spared until her son gotin a little money from the Dictionary or

something!

All of which is why I viewed withunfriendly distrust your latest gift, theAnalogy of Joseph Butler, late LordBishop of Durham. But, honestly, old man,did you know how funny it was when yousent it? It's funnier than any of the books ofMoses, without being bloody. What adear, innocent old soul the Bishop is!How sincerely he believes he is reasoningwhen he is merely doing a roguish two-step down the grim corridor of the eternalverities—with a little jig here and there,and a pause to flirt his frock airily in theface of some graven image of Fact. Ah, heis so weirdly innocent. Even when hislogical toes go blithely into the air, hisdear old face is most resolutely solemn,

and I believe he is never in the leastaware of his frivolous caperings over thefloor of induction. Indeed, hisunconsciousness is what makes him anunfailing delight. He even makes his goodold short-worded Saxon go in liltingwaltz-time.

You will never know, Grandad, what thisbook has done for me. I am stimulated inthe beginning by this: "From the vastextent of God's dominion there must besome things beyond our comprehension,and the Christian scheme may be one ofthem." And at the last I am soothed withthis heart-rending pas seul: "Concludingremarks by which it is clearly shown thatthose men who can evade the force ofarguments so probable for the truth of

Christianity undoubtedly possessdispositions to evil which would causethem to reject it, were it based on the mostabsolute demonstration." Is not that a pearlwithout price in this world of lawfulconclusions?

By the way, Grandad—recalling the textyou quote in your last—did you knowwhen you sent me to this university that thephilosophy taught, in a general way, is thatof Kant; that most university scholarssmile pityingly at the Christian thesis? Didyou know that belief in Genesis had beenlaughed away in an institution like this?With no intention of diverting you, butmerely in order to acquaint you with thepresent state of popular opinion on acertain matter, I will tell you of a picture

printed in a New York daily of yesterday.It's on the funny page. A certain weird butfunny-looking beast stands before anequally funny-looking Adam, in a funnyEden, with a funny Eve and a funny Cainand Abel in the background. The animalsays, "Say, Ad., what did you say myname was? I've forgotten it again." Ourfirst male parent answers somewhattestily, as one who has been vexed by likeinquiries: "Icthyosaurus, you darned fool!Can't you remember a little thing likethat?"

In your youth this would doubtless havebeen punished as a crime. In mine it islaughed at by all classes. I tell you this toshow you that the Church to-day is in theposition of upholding a belief which has

become meaningless because itsfoundation has been laughed away.Believing no longer in the god of Moseswho cursed them, Christians yet assume tobelieve in their need of a Saviour tointercede between them and this explodedidol of terror. Unhappily, I am so madethat I cannot occupy that position. To me itis not honest.

Old man, do you remember a certainsaying of Squire Cumpston? It was this:"If you're going to cross the Rubicon,cross it! Don't wade out to the middle andstand there: you only get hell from bothbanks!"

And so I have crossed; I find the Squirewas right about standing in the middle.Happily, or unhappily, I am compelled to

believe my beliefs with all my head andall my heart. But I am confident myreasons will satisfy you when you hearthem. You will see these matters in a newlight.Believe me, Grandad, with all love andrespect,

Affectionately yours,BERNAL LINFORD.

(From the Reverend Allan Delcher toBernal Linford.)

My Boy: For one bitten with skepticismthere is little argument—especially if hebe still in youth, which is a time of rawand ready judgments and of great spiritualself-sufficiency. You wanted to go toHarvard. I wanted you to go to Princeton,

because of its Presbyterianism andbecause, too, of Harvard's Unitarianism.We compromised on Yale—my own almamater, as it was my father's. To my belief,this was still, especially as to its pulpit,the stronghold of orthodoxCongregationalism. Was I a weak oldman, compromising with Satan? Are youto break my heart in these my brokenyears? For love of me, as for the love ofyour own soul, pray. Leave the God ofMoses until your soul's stomach can takethe strong meat of him—for he is strongmeat—and come simply to Jesus, the meekand gentle— the Redeemer, who died thathis blood might cleanse our sin-stainedsouls. Centre your aspirations upon Him,for He is the rock of our salvation, if webelieve, or the rock of our wrecking to

endless torment if we disbelieve. Do notdeny our God who is Jesus, nor disownJesus who is our God, nor yet question theinerrance of Holy Writ—yea, with itseverlasting burnings. "He that believethand is baptised shall be saved, but he thatbelieveth not shall be damned."

I am sad. I have lived too long.

GRANDFATHER.

(From Bernal Linford to the ReverendAllan Delcher.)

Grandad: It's all so plain, you must see it.I told you I had crossed to the fartherbank. Here is what one finds there: Takinghim as God, Jesus is ineffectual. Only asan obviously fallible human man does hebecome beautiful; only as a man is he

dignified, worthy, great—or evenplausible.

The instinct of the Jews did not misleadthem. Jesus was too fine, too good, tohave come from their tribal god; yet toohumanly limited to have come from God,save as we all come from Him.

Since you insist that he be considered asGod, I shall point out those things whichmake him small—as a God. I would ratherconsider him as a man and point out thosethings which make him great to me—things which I cannot read without weteyes—but you will not consider him asman, so let him be a God, and let us seewhat we see. It is customary to speak ofhis "sacrifice." What was it? Ourcatechism says, "Christ's humiliation

consisted in his being born, and that in alow condition, made under the law,undergoing the miseries of this life, thewrath of God and the cursed death of thecross; in being buried and continuingunder the power of death for a time."

As I write the words I wonder that thething should ever have seemed to any oneto be more than a wretched piece of God-jugglery, devoid of integrity. Are we toconceive God then as a being of carnalappetites, humiliated by being born intothe family of an honest carpenter, insteadof into the family of a King? This is thesomewhat snobbish imputation.

Let us be done with gods playing at beinghuman, or at being half god and halfhuman. The time has come when, to

prolong its usefulness, the Church mustconcede—nay, proclaim—the manhood ofJesus; must separate him from thatatrocious scheme of human sacrifice, thelogical extension of a primitive Hebrewmythology—and take him in the only waythat he commands attention: As a man, oneof the world's great spiritual teachers.Insisting upon his godship can only makehim preposterous to the modern mind.Jesus, born to a carpenter's wife ofNazareth, declares himself, one day abouthis thirtieth year, to be the Christ, thesecond person in the universe, who willcome in a cloud of glory to judge theworld. He will save into everlasting lifethose who believe him to be of divineorigin. Yet he has been called meek!Surely never was a more arrogant

character in history—never one less meekthan this carpenter's son who rankshimself second only to God, with powerto send into everlasting hell those whodisbelieve him! He went abroad in finearrogance, railing at lawyers and the rich,rebuking, reproving, hurling angryepithets, attacking what we to-day call"the decent element." He called the peopleconstantly "Fools," "Blind Leaders of theBlind," "faithless and perverse," "ageneration of vipers," "sinful," "evil andadulterous," "wicked," "hypocrites,""whited sepulchres."

As the god he worshipped was a tribalgod, so he at first believed himself to be atribal saviour. He directed his disciplesthus: "Go not into the way of the Gentiles,

and into any city of the Samaritans enterye not. But go rather to the lost sheep ofthe house of Israel"—(who emphaticallyrejected and slew him for hispretensions). To the woman of Canaanwhose daughter was vexed with a devil,he said: "It is not meet to take thechildren's bread to cast it to dogs."Imagine a God calling a woman a dogbecause she was not of his own tribe!And the vital test of godhood he failed tomeet: It is his own test, whereby hedisproves his godship out of his ownmouth. Compare these sayings of Jesus,each typical of him:

"Resist not evil; but whosoever shallsmite thee on thy right cheek, turn to himthe other also." Yet he said to his Twelve:

"And whosoever shall not receive you norhear you, when you depart thence shakeoff the dust of your feet for a testimonyagainst them."

Is that the consistency of a God or a man?

Again: "Blessed are the merciful," but"Verily I say unto you it shall be moretolerable for Sodom and Gomorrah in theday of judgment than for that city." Is thisthe mercy which he tells us is blessed?

Again: "And as ye would that men shoulddo to you do ye also to them likewise."Another: "Woe unto thee, Chorazin, woeunto thee, Bethsaida... and thou,Capernaum, which are exalted untoheaven, shall be brought down to hell." Isnot this preaching the golden rule andpracticing something else, as a man might?

Again: "Love your enemies, bless themthat curse you, do good to them that hateyou, and pray for them which despitefullyuse you and persecute you.

"For if ye love them which love you, whatreward have ye? Do not even thepublicans the same? And if ye salute yourbrethren, what do ye more than others? Donot even the publicans so?" That, sir, is asentiment that proves the claim of Jesus tobe a teacher of morals. Here is one which,placed beside it, proves him to have beena man.

"Whosoever shall confess me before men,him shall the son of man also confessbefore the angels of God;"but whosoever shall deny me beforemen, him will I also deny before my

father, which is in heaven."Is it God speaking—or man? "Do noteven the publicans so?"Beside this very human contradiction, it ishardly worth while to hear him say"Resist not evil," yet make a scourge ofcords to drive the money-changers fromthe temple in a fit of rage, human—buthow ungodlike!

Believe me, the man Jesus is better thanthe god Jesus; the man is worth while, forall his inconsistencies, partly due to hiscreed and partly to his emotional nature.Indeed, we have not yet risen to thesplendour of his ideal—even thepreachers will not preach it.

And the miracles? We need say nothing of

those, I think. If a man disprove hisgodship out of his own mouth, we shallnot be convinced by a coin in a fish'smouth or by his raising Lazarus, four daysdead. So long as he says, "I will confesshim that confesseth me and deny him thatdenieth me," we should know him for oneof us, though he rose from the dead beforeour eyes.

Then at the last you will say, "By theirfruits ye shall know them." Well, sir, thefruits of Christianity are what one mightexpect. You will say it stands for thefatherhood of God and the brotherhood ofman. That it has always done the reverseis Christianity's fundamental defect, andits chief absurdity in this day when thepopular unchurchly conception of God has

come to be one of some dignity.

"That ye may know how that the Lord dothput a difference between the Egyptiansand Israel." There is the rock ofseparation upon which the Churchbuilded; the rock upon which it willpresently split. The god of the Jews set adifference between Israel and Egypt. Somuch for the fatherhood of God. The Sonsets the same difference, dividing thesheep from the goats, according to theopinions they form of his claim togodship. So much for the brotherhood ofman. Christianity merely caricatures bothpropositions. Nor do I see how we canattain any worthy ideal of humanbrotherhood while this Christianityprevails: We must be sheep and goats

among ourselves, some in heaven, some inhell, still seeking out reasons "Why theSaints in Glory Should Rejoice at theSufferings of the Damned." We shall besaints and sinners, sated and starving. AGod who separates them in some futurelife will have children that separatethemselves here upon His own veryexcellent authority. That is why onebrother of us must work himself to deathwhile another idles himself to death—because God has set a difference, and hisSon after him, and the Church after that.The defect in social Christendom to-day,sir, is precisely this defect of the Christianfaith— its separation, its failure to teachwhat it chiefly boasts of teaching. Wehave, in consequence, a society of thinlyveneered predatoriness. And this, I

believe, is why our society is quite asunstable to-day as the Church itself. Theyare both awakening to a new truth—whichis not separation.

The man who is proud of our Christiancivilisation has ideals susceptible ofimmense elevation. Christianity has moresouls in its hell and fewer in its heaventhan any other religion whatsoever.Naturally, Christian society is one ofextremes and of gross injustice—ofoppression and indifference to suffering.And so it will be until this materialism ofseparation is repudiated: until we turnseriously to the belief that men are trulybrothers, not one of whom can be longhappy while any other suffers.

Come, Grandad, let us give up this God of

Moses. Doubtless he was good enough forthe early Jews, but man has always had tomake God in his own image, and you and Ineed a better one, for we both surpass thisone in all spiritual values—in love, intruth, in justice, in common decency—asmuch as Jesus surpassed the unrepentantthief at his side. Remember that an honest,fearless search for truth has led to all theprogress we can measure over the brutes.Why must it lose the soul?

BERNAL.

(From the Reverend Allan Delcher toBernal Linford.)

My boy, I shall not believe you are saneuntil I have seen you face to face. I cannotbelieve you have fallen a victim toUniversalism, which is like the vale of

Siddim, full of slime-pits. I am an oldman, and my mind goes haltingly, yet thatis what I seem to glean from yourrambling screed. Come when you arethrough, for I must see you once more.

"For God sent not His Son into the worldto condemn the world, but that the worldthrough him might be saved. He thatbelieveth on him is not condemned; but hethat believeth not is condemned alreadybecause he hath not believed in the nameof the only begotten son of God."

Lastly—doubt in infinite things is oftenwise, but doubt of God must beblasphemy, else he would not be God, theall-perfect.

I pray it may be your mind is still sick—and recall to you these words of one I will

not now name to you: "Father, forgivethem, for they know not what they do."

ALLAN DELCHER.

CHAPTER V

"Is the Hand of the LordWaxed Short?"

A dismayed old man, eagerly trying to feelincredulous, awaited the home-coming ofhis grandsons at the beginning of thatvacation.

Was the hand of the Lord waxed short, thatso utter a blasphemer—unless, indeed, hewere possessed of a devil—could walk inthe eye of Jehovah, and no breach be madeupon him? Even was the world itself solax in these days that one speaking thus

could go free? If so, then how could Godlonger refrain from drowning the worldagain? The human baseness of theblaspheming one and the divine tolerationthat permitted it were alike incredible.

A score of times the old man nervedhimself to laugh away his fears. It couldnot be. The young mind was stilldisordered.

On the night of the home-coming hegreeted the youth quite as if all wereserene within him, determined to be in nohaste and to approach the thing lightly onthe morrow—in the fond hope that a merebreath of authority might blow it away.

And when, the next morning, they bothdrifted to the study, the old man called upthe smile that made his wrinkles sunny,

and said in light tones, above the beatingof an anxious heart:

"So it's your theory, boy, that we must allbe taken down with typhoid before we canbe really wise in matters of faith?"

But the youth answered, quite earnestly:

"Yes, sir; I really believe nothing less thanthat would clear most minds—especiallyold ones. You see, the brain is a muscleand thought is its physical exercise. Itlearns certain thoughts—to go throughcertain exercises. These become a habit,and in time the muscle becomes stiff andincapable of learning any new movements—also incapable of leaving off the old.The religion of an old person is merely somuch reflex nervous action. It is beyondthe reach of reason. The individual's mind

can affect it as little as it can teach theother muscles of his body newsuppleness."

He spoke with a certain restrainednervousness that was not reassuring. Butthe old man would not yet be rebuffedfrom his manner of lightness.

"Then, wanting an epidemic of typhoid,we of the older generation must die inerror."

"Yes, sir—I doubt even the efficacy oftyphoid in most cases; it's as difficult foran old person to change a habit of thoughtas to take the wrinkles from his face. Thatis why what we very grandly call 'fightingfor the truth' or 'fighting for the Lord' ismerely fighting for our own little notions;they have become so vital to us and we

call them 'truth.'"

The youth stopped, with a palpable air ofdefiance, before which the old man'sassumption of ease and lightness was atlast beaten down. He had been standingerect by the table, still with the smiletoning his haggardness. Now the smiledied; the whole man sickened, lost lifevisibly, as if a dozen years of normalaging were condensed into the dozenseconds.

He let himself go into the big chair, almostas if falling, his head bowed, his eyesdulled to a look of absence, his armsfalling weakly over the chair's sides. Asigh that was almost a groan seemed totell of pain both in body and mind.

Bernal stood awkwardly regarding him,

then his face lighted with a sudden pity.

"But I thought you could understand, sir; Ithought you were different; you have beenlike a chum to me. When I spoke of oldpersons it never occurred to me that youcould fall into that class! I never knew youto be unjust, or unkind, or—narrow—perhaps I should say, unsympathetic."

The other gave no sign of hearing.

"My body was breaking so fast—and youbreak my heart!"

"There you are, sir," began the youth, alittle excitedly. "Your heart is breakingnot because I'm not good, but because Iform a different opinion from yours of aman rising from the dead, after he hasbeen crucified to appease the anger of his

father."

"God help me! I'm so human. I can't feeltoward you as I should. Boy, I won'tbelieve you are sane." He looked up in asudden passion of hope. "I won't believeChrist died in vain for my girl's little boy.Bernal, boy, you are still sick of thatfever!"

The other smiled, his youthful scorn forthe moment overcoming his deeper feelingfor his listener.

"Then I must talk more. Now, sir, forGod's sake let us have the plain truth ofthe crucifixion. Where was the sacrifice?Can you not picture the mob that wouldfight for the honour of crucifixion to-morrow, if it were known that the onechosen would sit at the right hand of God

and judge all the world? I say there wasno sacrifice, even if Christian dogma beliteral truth. Why, sir, I could go into thestreet and find ten men in ten minutes whowould be crucified a hundred times tosave the souls of us from hell—not if theywere to be rewarded with a seat on thethrone of God where they could send intohell those who did not believe in them—but for no reward whatever—out of asheer love for humanity. Don't you see,sir, that we have magnified thatcrucifixion out of all proportion to theplainest truth of our lives? You know Iwould die on a cross to-day, not toredeem the world, but to redeem one poorsoul—your own. If you deny that, at leastyou won't dare deny that you would go onthe cross to redeem my soul from hell—

the soul of one man—and do you think youwould demand a reward for doing it,beyond knowing that you had ransomedme from torment? Would it be necessaryto your happiness that you also have thepower to send into hell all those whowere not able to believe you had actuallydied for me?

"One moment more, sir—" The thin,brown, old hand had been raised intrembling appeal, while the lips movedwithout sound.

"You see every day in the papers how mendie for other men, for one man, for two, adozen! Why, sir, you know you would dieto save the lives of five little children—their bare carnal lives, mind you, to saynothing of their immortal souls. I believe

I'd die myself to save two thousand—Iknow I would to save three—if their faceswere clean and they looked funny enoughand helpless. Here, in this morning'spaper, a negro labourer, going home fromhis work in New York yesterday, pushedinto safety one of those babies that arealways crawling around on railroadtracks. He had time to see that he could getthe baby off but not himself, and then hewent ahead. Doubtless it was a verycommon baby, and certainly he was a verycommon man. Why, I could go down toSing Sing to-morrow, and I'll stake myown soul that in the whole cageful ofcriminals there isn't one who would noteagerly submit to crucifixion if hebelieved that he would thereby ransom therace from hell. And he wouldn't want the

power to damn the unbelievers, either. Hewould insist upon saving them with theothers."

"Oh, God, forgive this insane passion inmy boy!"

"It was passion, sir—" he spoke with asudden relenting—"but try to rememberthat I've sought the truth honestly."

"You degrade the Saviour."

"No; I only raise man out of the muck ofChristian belief about him. If common menall might live lives of greater sacrificethan Jesus did, without any pretensions tothe supernatural, it only means that weneed a new embodiment for our ideals. Ifwe find it in man—in God's creature—somuch the better for man and so much the

more glory to God, who has not thenbungled so wretchedly as Christianityteaches."

"God forgive you this tirade—I know it isthe sickness."

"I shall try to speak calmly, sir—but howmuch longer can an educated clergy keep astraight face to speak of this wretchedlyimpotent God? Christians of a truth havehad to bind their sense of humour as theChinese bound their women's feet. But thelaugh is gathering even now. Your religionis like a tree that has lain long dead in theforest—firm wood to the eye but dust tothe first blow. And this is how it will go—from a laugh—not through the solemnabsurdities of the so-called highercriticism, the discussing of this or that

miracle, the tracing of this or that myth offall or deluge or immaculate conception ortrinity to its pagan sources; not that way,when before the inquiring mind rises thesheer materialism of the Christian dogma,bristling with absurdities—its vainbungling God of one tribe who crowns hiscareer of impotencies—in all but the art ofslaughter—by instituting the sacrifice of aSon begotten of a human mother, toappease his wrath toward his owncreatures; a God who even by this pitifuldevice can save but a few of us. Was evergod so powerless? Do you think we whogrow up now do not detect it? Is it nottime to demand a God of virtue, ofintegrity, of ethical dignity—a religionwhose test shall be moral, and not theopinion one forms of certain alleged

material phenomena?"

When he had first spoken the old mancowered low and lower in his chair, withlittle moans of protest at intervals,perhaps a quick, almost gasping, "Godforgive him!" or a "Lord have mercy!" Butas the talk went on he became slowlyquieter, his face grew firmer, he sat up inhis chair, and at the last he came to bendupon the speaker a look that made himfalter confusedly and stop.

"I can say no more, sir; I should not havesaid so much. Oh, Grandad, I wouldn'thave hurt you for all the world, yet I hadto let you know why I could not do whatyou had planned—and I was fool enoughto think I could justify myself to you!"

The old eyes still blazed upon him with a

look of sorrow and of horror that was yet,first of all, a look of power; the look ofone who had mastered himself to speakcalmly while enduring uttermost pain.

"I am glad you have spoken. You werehonest to do so. It was my error not to beconvinced at first, and thus save myself ashock I could ill bear. But you have beensick, and I felt that I should not believewithout seeing you. I had built so much—so many years—on your preaching thegospel of—of my Saviour. This hope hasbeen all my life these last years—now itis gone. But I have no right to complain.You are free; I have no claim upon you;and I shall be glad to provide for you—toeducate you further for any profession youmay have chosen—to start you in any

business—away from here—from thishouse——"

The young man flushed—wincing underthis, but answered:

"Thank you, sir. I could hardly takeanything further. I don't know what I wantto do, what I can do—I'm at sea now. ButI will go. I'm sure only that I want to getout—away—I will take a small sum to gowith—I know you would be hurt more if Ididn't; enough to get me away—far enoughaway."

He went out, his head bowed under theold man's stern gaze. But when the latterhad stepped to the door and locked it, hisfortitude was gone. Helplessly he fellupon his knees before the big chair—praying out his grief in hard, dry sobs that

choked and shook his worn body.

When Clytie knocked at the door an hourlater, he was dry-eyed and apparentlyserene, but busy with papers at his table.

"Is it something bad about Bernal, Mr.Delcher," she asked, "that he's going awayso queer and sudden?"

"You pray for him, too, Clytie—you lovehim—but it's nothing to talk of."

But the alarm of Clytemnestra was not tobe put down by this.

"Oh, Mr. Delcher—" a look of horrorgrew big in her eyes—"You don't mean tosay he's gone and joined theUniversalists?"

The old man shook his head.

"And he ain't a Unitarian?"

"No, Clytie; but our boy has been tocollege and it has left him rather un—unconforming in some little matters—some details—doubtless his doctrine issound at core."

"But I supposed he'd learn everything offat that college, only I know he never gotfed half enough. What with all its studiesand football and clubs and things I thoughtit was as good as a liberal education."

"Too liberal, sometimes! Pray for Bernal—and we won't talk about it again, Clytie,if you please."

Presently came Allan, who had heard thenews.

"Bernal tells me he will not enter the

ministry, sir; that he is going away."

"We have decided that is best."

"You know, sir, I have suspected for sometime that Bernal was not as sounddoctrinally as you could wish. His mind,if I may say it, is a peculiarly literal one.He seems to lack a certain spiritualcomprehensiveness —an envelopingintuition, so to say, of the spiritual valuein a material fact. During that unhappyagitation for the revision of our creed, Ihave heard him, touching the future state ofunbaptised infants, utter sentiments of aheterodoxy that was positively effeminatein its sentimentality—sentiments which Ishall not pain you by repeating. He hasoften referred, moreover, with the samedisordered sentimentality, to the sad fate

of our father—about whose present estateno churchman can have any doubt. Andthen about our belief that even good worksare an abomination before God ifperformed by the unregenerate, the things Ihave heard him——"

"Yes—yes—let us not talk of it further.Did you wish to see me especially,Allan?"

"Well, yes, sir, I had wished to, andperhaps now is the best moment. I wantedto ask you, sir, how you would regard mybecoming an Episcopalian. I am reallypersuaded that its form of worship,translating as it does so much of thespiritual verity of life into visiblesymbols, is a form better calculated thanthe Presbyterian to appeal to the great

throbbing heart of humanity. I hope I mayeven say, without offense, sir, that itaffords a wider scope, a broader sweep, amore stimulating field of endeavour, toone who may have a capacity for the lifeof larger aspects. In short, sir, I believethere is a great future for me in thatchurch."

"I shouldn't wonder if there was,"answered the old man, who had studiedhis face closely during the speech. Yet hespoke with an extreme dryness of tone thatmade the other look quickly up.

"It shall be as you wish," he continued,after a meditative pause—"I believe youare better calculated for that church thanfor mine. Obey your call."

CHAPTER VI

In the Folly of His Youth

At early twilight Bernal, sore at heart forthe pain he had been obliged to cause theold man, went to the study-door for a lastword with him.

"I believe there is no one above whoseforgiveness I need, sir—but I shall alwaysbe grieved if I can't have yours. I do needthat."

The old man had stood by the open dooras if meaning to cut short the interview.

"You have it. I forgive you any hurt you

have done me; it was due quite as much tomy limitations as to yours. For that otherforgiveness, which you will one day knowis more than mine—I—I shall always prayfor that."

He stopped, and the other waitedawkwardly, his heart rushing out inineffectual flood against the old man'sbarrier of stern restraint. For a moment hemade folds in his soft hat with a fastidiousprecision. Finally he nerved himself to saycalmly:

"I thank you, sir, for all you have done—all you have ever done for me and forAllan—and, good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

Though there was no hint of unkindness in

the old man's voice, something formal inhis manner had restrained the other fromoffering his hand. Still loath to go withoutit, he said again more warmly:

"Good-bye, sir!"

"Good-bye!"

This time he turned and went slowly downthe dim hall, still making the careful foldsin his hat, as if he might presently recallsomething that would take him back. Atthe foot of the stairs he stopped quickly tolisten, believing he had heard a call fromabove; but nothing came and he went out.Still in the door upstairs was the old man—stern of face, save that far back in hiseyes a kind spirit seemed to striveineffectually.

Across the lawn from her hammock Nancycalled to Bernal. He went slowly towardher, still suffering from the old man'scoldness—and for the hurts he hadunwittingly put upon him.

The girl, as he went forward, stood togreet him, her gown, sleeveless, neckless,taking the bluish tinge that early twilightgives to snow, a tinge that deepened todusk about her eyes and in her hair. Shegave him her hand and at once he felt abalm poured into his tortured heart. Afterall, men were born to hurt and be hurt.

He sat in the rustic chair opposite thehammock, looking into Nancy's black-lashed eyes of the Irish gray, noting thatfrom nineteen to twenty her neck hadbroadened at the base the least one might

discern, that her face was less full yetricher in suggestion—her face of the oddsand ends when she did not smile. At thismoment she was not only unsmiling, butexcited.

"Oh, Bernal, what is it? Tell me quick.Allan was so vague—though he said he'dalways stand by you, no matter what youdid. What have you done, Bernal? Is it acollege scrape?"

"Oh, that's only Allan's big-hearted way oftalking! He's so generous and loyal I thinkhe's often been disappointed that I didn'tdo something, so he could stand by me.No—no scrapes, Nance, honour bright!"

"But you're leaving——"

"Well, in a way I have done something.

I've found I couldn't be a minister asGrandad had set his heart on my being——"

"But if you haven't done anything wicked,why not?"

"Oh, I'm not a believer."

"In what?"

"In anything, I think—except, well, in youand Grandad and—and Allan and Clytie—yes, and in myself, Nance. That's a bigpoint. I believe in myself."

"And you're going because you don'tbelieve in other things?"

"Yes, or because I believe too much—justas you like to put it. I demanded a betterGod of Grandad, Nance—one that didn't

create hell and men like me to fill it justfor the sake of scaring a few timid mortalsinto heaven."

"You know Aunt Bell is an unbeliever.She says no one with an open mind canlive twenty years in Boston without beingvastly broadened—'broadening into thehigher unbelief,' she calls it. She says shehas passed through nearly every stage ofunbelief there is, but that she feels theLord is going to bring her back at last torest in the shadow of the Cross."

As Aunt Bell could be heard creakingheavily in a willow rocker on the piazzanear-by, the young man suppressed acomment that arose within him.

"Only, unbelievers are apt to be fatiguing"the girl continued, in a lower tone. "You

know Aunt Bell's husband, Uncle Chester—the meekest, dearest little man in theworld, he was—well, once hedisappeared and wasn't heard of again forover four years—except that they knew hisbank account was drawn on from time totime. Then, at last, his brother found him,living quietly under an assumed name in alittle town outside of Boston—pretendingthat he hadn't a relative in the world. Hetold his brother he was just beginning tofeel rested. Aunt Bell said he wasdemented. While he was away she'd beenall through psychometry, the planchette,clairvoyance, palmistry, astrology, andUnitarianism. What are you, Bernal?"

"Nothing, Nance—that's the trouble."

"But where are you going, and what for?"

"I don't know either answer—but I can'tstay here, because I'm blasphemous—itseems—and I don't want to stay, even if Iweren't sent. I want to be out— away. Ifeel as if I must be looking for something Ihaven't found. I suspect it's a fourthdimension to religion. They have three—even breadth—but they haven't found faithyet—a faith that doesn't demand arbitrarysigns, parlour-magic, and bloody, weirdtales in a book that becomes their idol."

The girl looked at him long in silence,swaying a little in the hammock, a bareelbow in one hand, her meditative chin inthe other, the curtains of her eyes half-drawn, as if to let him in a little at a timebefore her wonder. Then, at last:

"Why, you're another Adam—being sent

out of the garden for your sin. Now tell me—honest—was the sin worth it? I've oftenwondered." She gave an eager little laugh.

"Why, Nance, it's worth so much that youwant to go of your own accord. Do yousuppose Adam could have stayed in thatfat, lazy, silly garden after he becamealive—with no work, no knowledge, noadventure, no chance to do wrong? As forearning his bread—the only plausible hellI've ever been able to picture is one wherethere was nothing to do—no work, nopuzzling, no chances to take, no necessityof thinking. Now, isn't that an ideal hell?And is it my fault if it happens to be adescription of what Christians lookforward to as heaven? I tell you, Adamwould have gone out of that garden from

sheer boredom after a few days. Thesetting of the angel with the flaming swordto guard the gate shows that God stillfailed to understand the wonderfulcreature he had made."

She smiled, meditative, wondering.

"I dare say, for my part, I'd have eaten thatapple if the serpent had been at allpersuasive. Bernal, I wonder—andwonder—and wonder—I'm never done.And Aunt Bell says I'll never be a sweetand wholesome and stimulatingcompanion to my husband, if I don't stopbeing so vague and fantastic."

"What does she call being vague andfantastic?"

"Not wanting any husband."

"Oh!"

"Bernal, it's like the time that you ran offwhen you were a wee thing—to be bad."

"And you cried because I wouldn't takeyou with me."

"I can feel the woe of it yet."

"You're dry-eyed now, Nance."

"Yes—and the pink parasol and the buffshoes I meant to take with me are alsothings of the past. Mercy! The idea ofgoing off with an unbeliever to be bad and—everything! 'The happy couple are saidto look forward to a life of joyouswickedness, several interesting crimeshaving been planned for the comingseason. For their honeymoon infamy theywill perpetrate a series of bank-robberies

along the Maine coast.' There—howwould that sound?"

"You're right, Nance—I wouldn't take youthis time either, even if you cried. Andyour little speech is funny and all that—but Nance, I believe, these last years,we've both thought of things now and then— things, you know—things to think ofand not talk of— and see here—The manwas driven out of the garden—but not thewoman. She isn't mentioned. She couldstay there——"

"Until she got tired of it herself?"

"Until the man came back for her."

He thought her face was glowing duskilyin the twilight.

"I wonder—wonder about so many

things," she said softly.

"I believe you're a sleeping rebel yourself,Nance. If ever you do eat from that tree,there'll be no holding you. You won't waitto be driven forth!"

"And you are, a wicked young man—thatkind never comes back in the stories."

"That may be no jest, Nance. I shouldsurely be wicked, if I thought it brings thehappiness it's said to. Under this big sky Iam free from any moral law that doesn'tcome from right here inside me. Can yourealize that? Do I seem bad for saying it?What they call the laws of God arenothing. I suspect them all, and I'll makeevery one of them find its authority in mebefore I obey it."

"It sounds—well—unpromising, Bernal."

"I told you it was serious, Nance. I see butone law clearly—I am bound to wanthappiness. Every man is bound always towant happiness, Nance. No man canpossibly want anything else. That's theonly thing under heaven I'm sure of at thismoment—the one universal law underwhich we all make our mistakes—goodpeople and bad alike?"

"But, Bernal, you wouldn't be bad—notreally bad?"

"Well, Nance, I've a vague, loose sort ofnotion that one isn't really compelled to bebad in order to be happy right here onearth. I know the Church rather intimatesthis, but I suspect that vice is not thedelicious thing the Church implies it to

be."

"You make me afraid, Bernal——"

"But if I do come back, Nance, havingtoiled?"

"——and you make me wonder."

"I think that's all either of us can do,Nance, and I must go. I have to say good-bye to Clytie yet. The poor soul isconvinced that I have become a Unitarianand that there's a conspiracy to keep thehorrible truth from her. She says grandadevaded her questions about it. She doesn'tdream there are depths belowUnitarianism. I must try to convince herthat I'm not that bad—that I may have aweak head and a defective heart, but notthat. Nance—girl!"

He sat forward in the chair, reachingtoward her. She turned her face away, buttheir hands trembled toward each other,faltering fearfully, tremulously, into aclasp that became at once firm andknowing when it felt itself—as if itopened their blind eyes to a world of lifeand light without end, a world in whichthey two were the first to live.

Lingeringly, with slow, regretting fingers,the hands fell apart, to tighten eagerlyagain into the clasp that made them oneflesh.

When at last they were put asunder botharose. The girl patted from her skirts thehammock's little disarranging touches,while the youth again made the carefulfolds in his hat. Then they shook hands

very stiffly, and went opposite ways out ofa formal garden of farewell; the youth tosate that beautiful, crude young lust forliving—too fierce to be tamed save by itsown failures, hearing only the sagas ofaction, of form and colour and sound madeone by heat—the song Nature singsunendingly—but heard only by young ears.

The girl went back to the Crealock piazzato hear of one better set in the grace offaith.

"That elder young Linford," began AuntBell, ceasing to rock, "has a future. Youknow I talked to him about the EpiscopalChurch, strongly advising him to enter it.For all my broad views"—Aunt Bellsighed here—"I really and truly believe,child, that no one not an Episcopalian is

ever thoroughly at ease in this world."

Aunt Bell was beautifully, girlishlyplump, with a sophisticated air ofsmartness—of coquetry, indeed—as to herexquisitely small hands and feet; andthough a certain suggestion of melancholyin her tone harmonised with the carefullydressed gray hair and with her apparentyears, she nevertheless breathed airs ofperfect comfort.

"Of course this young chap could see atonce," she went on, "what immenselybetter form it is than Calvinism. Dear me!Imagine one being a Presbyterian in thisday!" It seemed here that the soul of AuntBell poised a disdainful lorgnette beforeits eyes, through which to survey in afitting manner the unmodish spectacle of

Calvinism.

"And he tells me that he has hisgrandfather's consent. Really, my dear,with his physique and voice and mannerthat fellow undoubtedly has a future in theEpiscopal Church. I dare say he'll bewearing the lawn sleeves and rochet of abishop before he's forty."

"Did it ever occur to you, Aunt Bell, thathe is—well, just the least trifle—I wasgoing to say, vain of his appearance—butI'll make it 'self-conscious'?"

"Child, don't you know that a young man,really beautiful without being effeminate,is bound to be conscious of it. But vain heis not. It mortifies him dreadfully, thoughhe pretends to make light of it."

"But why speak of it so often? He wastelling me to-day of an elderly Englishmanwho addressed him on the train, tellinghim what a striking resemblance he boreto the Prince of Wales when he was ayouth."

"Quite so; and he told me yesterday ofhearing a lady in the drug-store ask theclerk who 'that handsome stranger' was.But, my dear, he tells them as jokes onhimself, and he's so sheepish about it. Andhe's such a splendid orator. I persuadedhim to-day to read me one of his collegepapers. I don't seem to recall much of thesubstance, but it was full of the mostbeautiful expressions. One, I remember,begins, 'Oh, of all the flowers that swingtheir golden censers in the parterre of the

human heart, none so rich, so rare as thisone flower of—' you know I've forgottenwhat it was—Civilisation or Truth orsomething. Anyway, whatever it was, ithad like a giant engine rolled the car ofCivilisation out from the maze ofantiquity, where she now waits to befreighted with the precious fruits of livinggenius, and so on."

"That seems impressive and—mixed,perhaps?"

"Of course I can't remember things in theirorder, but it was about the essential natureof man being gregarious, and truth is apotent factor in civilisation, and somethingwould be a tear on the world's cold cheekto make it burn forever—isn't thatstriking? And Greece had her Athens and

her Corinth, but where now is Greecewith her proud cities? And Rome,Imperial Rome, with all her pomp andsplendour. Of course I can't recall hiswords. There was a beautiful reference toAmerica, I remember, from the Atlantic tothe Pacific, from the lakes of the frozenNorth to the ever-tepid waters of the sunnySouth—and a perfectly splendid passageabout the world is and ever has beenilliberal. Witness the lonely lamp ofErasmus, the cell of Galileo, the dying bedof Pascal, the scaffold of Sidney—Sidneywho, I wonder?"

"Has it taken you that way, Aunt Bell?"

"And France, the saddest example of anation without a God, and succeedinggenerations will only add a new lustre to

our present resplendent glory, boundtogether by the most sacred ties ofgoodwill; independent, yet acknowledgingthe sovereignty of Omnipotence, and itwas fraught with vital interest to everythinking man——"

"Spare me, Aunt Bell—it's like ConeyIsland, with all those carrousels goingaround and five bands playing at once!"

"But his peroration! I can't pretend to giveyou any idea of its beauties——"

"Don't!"

"Get him to declaim it for you. It begins inthe most impressive language about hisstanding on top of the Rocky Mountainsone day and placing his feet upon a solidrock, he saw a tempest gathering in the

valley far below. So he watches the storm—in his own language, of course—whileall around him is sunshine. And suchshould be our aim in life, to plant our feeton the solid rock of—how provoking! Ican't remember what the rock was—anyway, we are to bid those in the valleybelow to cease their bickerings and comeup to the rock—I think it was IntellectualGreatness— No!—Unselfishness—that'sit. And the title of the paper was a sermonin itself—'The Temporal Advantage of theIndividual No Norm of Morality.' Isn't thata beautiful thought in itself? Nancy, thatchap will waste himself until he has a cityparish."

There was silence for a little time beforeAunt Bell asked, as one having returned to

baser matters:

"I wonder if the jacket of my gray suitcame back from that clumsy tailor. I forgotto ask Ellen if an express package came."

And Nancy, whose look was bent far intothe dusk, answered:

"Oh, I wonder if he will come back!"

BOOK THREE—The Age of Faith

CHAPTER I

The Perverse Behaviour of anOld Man and a Young Man

When old Allan Delcher slept with hisfathers— being so found in the big chair,with the worn, leather-bound Bible openin his lap—the revived but still tenderfaith of Aunt Bell Hardwick was bitten asby frost. And this though the Bible hadlain open at that psalm in which David issaid to describe the corruption of a naturalman—a psalm beginning, "The fool hathsaid in his heart, 'There is no God.'"

For it straightway appeared that the deadman had in life done abperverse andinexplicable thing, to the bitter amazementof those who had learned to trust him. Onthe day after he sent a blasphemousgrandson from his door he had called forSquire Cumpston, announcing to the familyhis intention to make an entirely new will—a thing for which there seemed to be acertain sad necessity.

When he could no longer be reproached ittranspired that he had left "to AllanDelcher Linford, son of one ClaytonLinford," a beggarly pittance of fivethousand dollars; and "to my belovedgrandson, Bernal Linford, I give, deviseand bequeath the residue of my estate,both real and personal."

Though the husband of her niece worepublicly a look of faith unimpaired, andwas thereby an example to her, Aunt Belldeclared herself to be once more on theverge of believing that the proofs of anoverseeing Providence, all-wise and all-loving, were by no means overwhelming;that they were, indeed, of so frail avalidity that she could not wonder atpeople falling away from the Church. Itwas a trying time for Aunt Bell. She feltthat her return to the shadow of the crosswas not being made enough of by the Oneabove. After years of running after strangegods, the Episcopal service asadministered by Allan had prevailed overher seasoned skepticism: through itsfascinating leaven of romance—with faintand, as it seemed to her, wholly reverent

hints of physical culture—the spirit maybe said to have blandished her. And nowthis turpitude in a man of God came todisturb the first tender rootlings of hernew faith.

The husband of her niece had loyallyendeavoured to dissuade her from this toohuman reaction.

"God has chosen to try me for a purpose,Aunt Bell," he said very simply. "I oughtto be proud of it— eager for any test—andI am. True, in these last years I had lookedupon grandfather's fortune as mine— notonly by implied promise, but by allstandards of right—even of integrity. Forsurely a man could not more nearly forfeithis own rights, in every moral aspect, thanpoor Bernal has—though I meant always

to stand by him. So you see, I mustconclude that God means to distinguish meby a test. He may even subject me toothers; but I shall not wince. I shallwelcome His trials. He turned upon herthe face of simple faith."

"Did you speak to that lawyer about thepossibility of a contest—of provingunsound mind?"

"I did, but he saw no chance whatever."

Aunt Bell hereupon surveyed herbeautifully dimpled knuckles minutely,with an affectionate pride—a pride notuncritical, yet wholly convinced.

"Of course," added Allan after a moment'sreflection, "there's no sense in believingthat every bit of one's hard luck is sent by

God to test one. One must in all reverencetake every precaution to prove that thedisaster is not humanly remediable. Andthis, I may say, I have done withthoroughness—with great thoroughness."

"Bernal may be dead," suggested AuntBell, brightening now from an impartialadmiring of the toes of her small, plumpslippers.

"God forbid that he should be cut off in hisunbelief —but then, God's will be done. Ifthat be true, of course, the matter isdifferent. Meantime we are advertising."

"I wish I had your superb faith, Allan. Iwish Nancy had it...."

Her niece's husband turned his head andshoulders until she had the three-quarters

view of his face.

"I have faith, Aunt Bell. God knows myunworthiness, even as you know it and Iknow it—but I have faith!"

The golden specks in his hazel eyesblazed with humility, and a flush of thesame virtue mantled his perfect brow.

Such news of Bernal Linford as had comeback to Edom, though meagre andfragmentary, was of a character to confirmthe worst fears of those who loved him.The first report came within a year afterhis going, and caused a shaking of manyheads.

An estimable farmer, one Caleb Webster,living on the outskirts of Edom, had, in ablameless spirit of adventure, toured the

Far West, at excursion rates said to beastounding for cheapness. He had met theunfortunate young man in one of the newermining towns along his exciting route.

"He was kind of nursin' a feller that hadthe consumption, " ran the gossip of Mr.Webster, "some one he'd fell in with out inthem parts, that had gone there to gitcured. But, High Mighty! the way themtwo carried on at all hours wasn't goin' tocure no one of nothin'! Specially gamblin',which was done right in public, you mightsay, though the sharpers never skinned menone, I'll say that! But these two was at itevery night, and finally they done just likeI told the young fools they'd do—they lostall they had. They come into theCommercial House one night where I was

settin' lookin' over a time-table, bothseemin' down in the mouth. And all toonce this sick young man—Mr. Hoover,his name was—bust out cryin'—him bein'weak or mebbe in liquor or somethin'.

"'Every cent lost!' he says, the tears runnin'down those yellow, sunk cheeks of his.But Bernal seems to git chipper againwhen he sees how Mr. Hoover is takin' it,so he says, 'Haven't you got a cent left,Hoover? Haven't you got anythin' at allleft? Just think,' he says, 'what I stood towin on that last turn, if it'd come my way—at four to one,' he says, or somethin' likethat; them gamblin' terms is too much forme. 'Hain't you got nothin' at all left?' hesays.

"Then this Hoover—still cryin', mind you

—he says, 'Not a cent in the world exceptforty dollars in my trunk upstairs that Isaved out to bury me with—and they won'tsend me another cent,' he says, 'because Itried 'em.'

"It sounded awful to hear him talkin' likethat about his own buryin', but it didn'tphase Bernal none.

"'Forty dollars!' he says, kind of sniffylike. 'Why, man, what could you do forforty dollars? Don't you know such thingsare very outrageous in price here? Fortydollars—why,' he says, 'the very best youcould do would be one of these plain pinethings with black cloth tacked on to it, andpewter trimmin's if any,' he says. 'Think ofpewter trimmin's!'

"'Say,' he says, when Hoover begun to

look up at him, 'you run and dig up yourold forty and I'll go back right now andwin you out a full satin-lined, silver-trimmed one, polished mahogany and goldname-plate, and there'll be enough for aclock of immortelles with the handsstopped at just the hour it happens,' hesays. 'And you want to hurry,' he says, 'itought to be done right away—with thatcough of yours.'

"Me? Gosh, I felt awful—I wanted to dropright through the floor, but this Hoover, hesays all at once, still snufflin', mind you:'Say, that's all right,' he says. 'If I'm goin'to do it at all, I ought to do it right for thecredit of my folks. I ought to give thistown a flash of the right thing,' he says.

"Then he goes upstairs, leaning on the

balusters, and gets his four ten-dollar billsthat had been folded away all neat at thebottom of his trunk, and before I couldthink of anythin' wholesome to say—I wasthat scandalised —they was goin' offacross the street to the Horseshoe Gamin'Parlour, this feller Hoover seemin' verysanguine and asking Bernal whether hewas sure they was a party in town coulddo it up right after they'd went and won themoney for it.

"Well, sir, I jest set there thinkin' how thisboy Bernal Linford was brought up for apreacher, and 'Jest look at him now!' Isays to myself—and I guess it was mebbean hour later I seen 'em comin' out of theswingin' blinds in the door of this place,and a laffin' fit to kill themselves. 'High

Mighty! they done it!' I says, watchin' 'emlaff and slap each other on the back tillHoover had to stop in the middle of thestreet to cough. Well, they come into theCommercial office where I am and I says,'Well, boys, how much did you fellerswin?' and Hoover says, 'Not a cent! Welost our roll,' he says. 'It's the blamedestfunniest thing I ever heard of,' he says, justlike that, laffin' again fit to choke.

"'I don't see anythin' to laff at,' I says.'How you goin' to live?'

"'How's he goin' to die?' says Bernal,'without a cent to do it on?'

"'That's the funny part of it,' says Hoover.'Linford thought of it first. How can I dienow? It wouldn't be square,' he says—'mewithout a cent!'

"Then they both began to laugh—but me, Icouldn't see nothin' funny about it.

"Wal, I left early next mornin', not wantin'to have to refuse 'em a loan."

CHAPTER II

How a Brother was Different

In contrast with this regrettableperformance of Bernal's, which, alas!bore internal evidence of being a type ofmany, was the flawless career of Allan,the dutiful and earnest. Not only did hecomplete his course at the GeneralTheological Seminary with great honour,but he was ordained into the Episcopalministry under circumstances entirelyauspicious. Aunt Bell confided to Nancythat his superior presence quite dwarfedthe bishop who ordained him.

His ordination sermon, moreover, whichhis grandfather had been persuaded intojourneying to hear, was held by many tobe a triumph of pulpit oratory no less than

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an able yet not unpoetic handling of histext, which was from John—"The Truthshall make you free."

Truth, he declared, was the crowningglory in the diadem of man's attributes,and a subject fraught with vital interest toevery thinking man. The essential nature ofman being gregarious, how important thatthe leader of men should hold Truth to belike a diamond, made only the brighter byfriction. The world is and ever has beenilliberal. Witness the lonely lamp ofErasmus, the cell of Galileo, the dying bedof Pascal, the scaffold of Sidney—allfighters for truth against the masses whocannot think for themselves.

Truth was, indeed, a potent factor incivilisation. If only all truth-lovers could

feel bound together by the sacred ties offraternal good-will, independent yetacknowledging the sovereignty ofOmnipotence, succeeding ages could butadd a new lustre to their presentresplendent glory.

Truth, triumphant out of oppression, is atear falling on the world's cold cheek tomake it burn forever. Why fear therevelation of truth? Greece had her Athensand her Corinth, but where is Greece to-day? Rome, too, Imperial Rome, with allher pomp and polish! They were, but theyare not—for want of Truth. But might notwe hope for a land where Truth wouldreign —from the Atlantic to the Pacific,from the lakes of the frozen North to theever-tepid waters of the sunny South?

Truth is the grand motor-power which,like a giant engine, has rolled the car ofcivilisation out from the maze of antiquitywhere it now waits to be freighted withthe precious fruits of living genius.

The young man's final flight was observedby Aunt Bell to impress visibly even thebishop—a personage whom she had begunto suspect was the least bit cynical,perhaps from having listened to many firstsermons.

"Standing one day," it began, "near thesummit of one of the grand old RockyMountains that in primeval ages waselevated from ocean's depths and nowtowers its snow-capped peak heavenwardtouching the azure blue, I witnessed ascene which, for beauty of illustration of

the thought in hand, the world cannotsurpass. Placing my feet upon a solidrock, I saw, far down in the valley below,the tempest gathering. Soon the low-muttered thunder and vivid flashes oflightning gave token of increasingturbulence with Nature's elements. Thusthe storm raged far below while allaround me and above glittered the puresunlight of heaven, where I mingled in theblue serene; until at last the thought cameelectric-like, as half-divine, here isexemplified in Nature's own impressivelanguage the simple grandeurs of Truth.While we are in the valley below, wehave ebullitions of discontent andmurmurings of strife; but as we near thesummit of Truth our thought becomeselevated. Then placing our feet on the

solid Rock of Ages, we call to those in thevalley below to cease their bickerings andcome up higher.

"Truth! Oh, of all the flowers that swingtheir golden censers in the parterre of thehuman heart, none so rich, so rare, as thisone flower of Truth. Other flowers theremay be that yield as rich perfume, but theymust be crushed in order that theirfragrance become perceptible. But thesoul of this flower courses its way downthe garden walk, out through the deep,dark dell, over the burning plain, up themountain-side, up and ever UP it risesinto the beautiful blue; all along the cloudycorridors of the day, up along the mistypathway to the skies, till it touches thebeautiful shore and mingles with the

breath of angels!"

Yet a perverse old man had sat stonilyunder this sermon —had, even after soeffective a baptism, neglected to undo thatwhich he should never have done.Moreover, even on the day of this notablesermon, he was known to have referred tothe young man, within the hearing of adiscreet housekeeper, as "the son of hisfather"—which was an invidiouscircumlocution, amounting almost to anepithet. And he had most weaklycontinued to grieve for the wayward lostson of his daughter—the godless boywhom he had driven from his door.

Not even the other bit of news that came alittle later had sufficed to make him repairhis injustice; and this, though the report

came by the Reverend Arthur PelhamGridley, incumbent of the Presbyterianpulpit at Edom, who could preachsermons the old man liked.

Mr. Gridley, returning from a certaingathering of the brethren at Denver, hadbrought this news: That Bernal Linfordhad been last seen walking south fromDenver, like a common tramp, in thecompany of a poor half-witted creaturewho had aroused some local excitementby declaring himself to be the son of God,speaking familiarly of the Deity as"Father."

As this impious person had been of a verysimple mind and behaved inoffensively,rather shrinking from publicity thancourting it, he had at first attracted little

attention. It appeared, however, that hehad presently begun an absurd pretence ofhealing the sick and the lame; and, like allcharlatans, he so cunningly worked uponthe imaginations of his dupes that aremarkable number of them believed thatthey actually had been healed by him. Infact, the nuisance of his operations hadgrown to an extent so alarming thatthousands of people stood in line fromearly morning until dusk awaiting theirturn to be blessed and "healed" by theimpostor. Just as several of the clergy,said Mr. Gridley, were on the point ofdenouncing this creature as anti-Christ andthus exploding his pretensions; and whenthe city authorities, indeed, appealed to bythe local physicians, were on the point ofsuppressing him for disorderly conduct,

and a menace to the public health, since hewas encouraging the people to forsaketheir family physicians; and just as thenews came that a long train-load of thevariously suffering was on its way fromOmaha, the wretched impostor hadhimself solved the difficulty by quietlydisappearing. As he had refused to takemoney from the thousands of his dupeswho had pressed it upon him in theirfancied relief from pain, it was known thathe could not be far off, and some curiositywas at first felt as to his whereabouts—particularly by those superstitious oneswho continued to believe he had healedthem of their infirmities, not a few ofwhom, it appeared, were disposed tocredit his blasphemous claim to have beensent by God.

According to the lookout thus kept for thisperson, it was reported that he had beenseen to pass on foot through towns lyingsouth of Denver, meanly dressed andaccompanied by a young man namedLinford. To all inquiries he answered thathe was on his way to fast in the desert ashis "Father" had commanded. Hiscompanion was even less communicative,saying somewhat irritably that his goingsand comings were nobody's business buthis own.

Some six months later the remains of theunfortunate person were found in a wildplace far to the south, with his Bible andhis blanket. It was supposed that he hadstarved. Of Linford no further trace hadbeen discovered.

The most absurd tales were now told, saidMr. Gridley, of the miracles of healingwrought by this person—told, moreover,by persons of intelligence whom inordinary matters one would not hesitate totrust. There had even been a story started,which was widely believed, that he hadraised the dead; moreover, many of thosewho had been deluded into believingthemselves healed, looked forwardconfidently to his own resurrection.

Mr. Gridley ventured the opinion that weshould be thankful to the daily press whichnow disseminates the news of such thingspromptly, instead of allowing it to travelslowly by word of mouth, as it did in lessadvanced times—a process in which alittle truth becomes very shortly a mighty

untruth. Even between Denver and Omahahe had observed that the wonder-tales ofthis person grew apace, thus proving theinaccuracy of the human mind as areporter of fact. Without the check of anunemotional daily press Mr. Gridleysuspected that the poor creature'sperformances would have been magnifiedby credulous gossip until he became thefounder of a new religion—a thingespecially to be dreaded in a day when thepeople were crazed for any new thing—asPaul found them in Athens.

Mr. Gridley mentioned further that theperson had suffered from what thealienists called "morbid delusions ofgrandeur"—believing, indeed, that butOne other in the universe was greater than

himself; that he would sit at the right handof Power to judge all the world. His mostpuerile pretension, however, was that hemeant to live, even if the work required athousand years, until such time as he couldsave all persons into heaven, so that hellneed have no occupants.

But this distressing tale did not move oldAllan Delcher to reconsider his perversedecision, though there had been ampletime for reparation. Placidly he droppedoff one day, a little while after he hadcautioned Clytie to keep the house readyfor Bernal's coming; and to have alwayson hand one of those fig layer-cakes ofwhich he was so fond, since as likely asnot he would ask for this the first thing,just as he used to do. It must seem

homelike to him when he did come.

Having betrayed the trust reposed in himby an unsuspecting grandson, it seemedfitting that he should fall asleep over thatvery psalm wherein David describeth thecorruption of the natural man.

CHAPTER III

How Edom was Favoured ofGod and Mammon

In the years gone, the village of Edom hadmatured, even as little boys wax tomanhood. Time was when all but twotrains daily sped by it so fast that fromtheir windows its name over the stationdoor was naught but a blur. Now all waschanged. Many trains stopped, and peopleof the city mien descended from or enteredsmart traps, yellow depot-wagons orimmaculate victorias, drawn by short-tailed, sophisticated steeds managed by

liveried persons whose scraped faceswere at once impassive and alert.

In its outlying parts, moreover, statelyvillas now stood in the midst of groundshedged, levelled, sprayed, shaven,trimmed and garnished—groundscherished sacredly with a reverence likeunto that once accorded the Front Room inthis same village. Edom, indeed, hadoutgrown its villagehood as a country boyin the city will often outgrow his homeways. That is, it was still a village in itsinmost heart; but outwardly, at its edges,the distinctions and graces of urbanworldliness had come upon it.

All this from the happy circumstance thatEdom lay in a dale of beauty not too farfrom the blessed centre of things requisite.

First, one by one, then by families, then bygroups of families, then by cliques, theinvaders had come to promote Edom'simportance; one being brought by thegracious falling of its little hills; one by itsnarrow valleys where the quick littlewaters come down; one by the clearnessof its air; and one by the cheapness withwhich simple old farms might be boughtand converted into the most city-like ofcountry homes.

The old stock of Edom had early learnednot to part with any massive claw-footedsideboard with glass knobs, or anymahogany four-poster, or tall clock, orhigh-boy, except after feigning adistressed reluctance. It had learned alsoto hide its consternation at the prices

which this behaviour would eventuallyinduce the newcomers to pay for suchjunk. Indeed, it learned very soon to be ashrewd valuer of old mahogany, pewter,and china; even to suspect that the buyersmight perceive beauties in it that justifiedthe prices they paid.

Old Edom, too, has its own opinion of therelative joys of master and servant, thelatter being always debonair, theiremployers stiff, formal and concerned. Itconceives that the employers, indeed,have but one pleasure: to stand beholdingwith anxious solemnity— quite as if itwere the performance of a religious rite—the serious-visaged men who daily barberthe lawns and hedges. It is suspected byold Edomites that the menials, finding

themselves watched at this delicate task,strive to copy in face and demeanour thesolemnity of the observing employer—clipping the box hedge one more fractionof an inch with the wariest caution—maintaining outwardly, in short, a mostreverent seriousness which in their secrethearts they do not feel.

Let this be so or not. The point is thatEdom had gone beyond its three churchesof Calvin, Wesley and Luther—to saynothing of one poor little frame structurewith a cross at the peak, where a handfulof benighted Romanists had long beenknown to perform their idolatrous rites.Now, indeed, as became a smartenedvillage, there was a perfect littleEpiscopal church of redstone, stained

glass and painted shingles, with amacadam driveway leading under itsdainty porte-cochère, and at the base ofwhose stern little tower an eager ivyalready aspired; a toy-like, yetsuggestively imposing edifice, quite in themanner of smart suburban churches—amanner that for want of accurateknowledge one might call confectioner'sgothic.

It was here, in his old home, that theReverend Allan Delcher Linford found hisfirst pastorate. Here from the verybeginning he rendered apparent those giftsthat were to make him a power amongmen. It was with a lofty but tremblinghope that the young novice began his firstservice that June morning, before a

congregation known to be hypercritical,composed as it was of seasoned citycommunicants, hardened listeners andwatchers, who would appraise hisvestments, voice, manner, appearance, andsermon, in the light of a ripe experience.

Yet his success was instant. He knew itlong before the service ended—felt itinfallibly all at once in the midst of hissermon on Faith. From the reading of histext, "For God so loved the world that hegave his only begotten Son, thatwhosoever believed therein might notperish, but have everlasting life," theworldly people before him were held asby invisible wires running from him toeach of them. He felt them sway inobedience to his tones; they warmed with

him and cooled with him; aspired withhim, questioned, agreed, and glowed withhim. They were his—one with him. Theireyes saw a young man in the splendour ofhis early prime, of a faultless, but trulymasculine beauty, delicate yet manfullyrugged, square-chinned, straight-mouthed,with tawny hair and hazel eyes full ofglittering golden points when hiseloquence mounted; clear-skinned,brilliant, warm-voiced, yet alwayssimple, direct, earnest; a storehouse ofpower, yet ornate; a source of refreshmentboth physical and spiritual to all withinthe field of his magnetism.

So agreed those who listened to that firstsermon on Faith, in which that virtue wassaid be like the diamond, made only the

brighter by friction. Motionless hislisteners sat while he likened Faith to thegiant engine that has rolled the car ofReligion out from the maze of antiquityinto the light of the present day, where itnow waits to be freighted with theprecious fruits of living genius, then tospeed on to that hoped-for golden erawhen truth shall come forth as a new andblazing star to light the splendid pageantryof earth, bound together in one law ofuniversal brotherhood, independent, yetacknowledging the sovereignty ofOmnipotence.

Rapt were they when, with rare verbalfelicity and unstudied eloquence, theyoung man pictured himself standing upona lofty sunlit mountain, while a storm

raged in the valley below, callingpassionately to those far down in theebullition to come up to him and mingle inthe blue serene of Faith. Faith was,indeed, a tear dropped on the world's coldcheek of Doubt to make it burn forever.

Even those long since blasé to pulpitoratory thrilled at the simple beauty of hisperoration, which ran: "Faith! Oh, of allthe flowers that swing their goldencensers in the parterre of the human heart,none so rich, so rare, as this one flower ofFaith. Other flowers there may be thatyield as rich perfume, but they must becrushed in order that their fragrancebecome perceptible. But this flower——"

In spite of this triumph, it had taken himstill another year to prevail over one of

his hearers. True, she had met him afterthat first triumphant ordination sermonwith her black lashes but half-veiling theadmiration that shone warm in the gray ofher eyes; and his low assurance, "Nance,yo u please me! Really you do!" as hisyellow eyes lingered down her roundedslenderness from summer bonnet to hem ofsummer gown, rippled her face with acolour she had to laugh away.

Yet she had been obstinate andwondering. There had to be a year inwhich she knew that one she dreamed ofwould come back; another in which shebelieved he might; another in which shehoped he would—and yet another inwhich she realised that dreams and hopesalike were vain—vain, though there were

times in which she seemed to feel againthe tingling life of that last hand-clasp;times when he called to her; times whenshe had the absurd consciousness that hismind pressed upon hers. There had beenso many years and so much wonder—andno one came. It had been foolish indeed.And then came a year of wondering at theother. The old wonder concerning thisone, excited by a certain fashion ofrendering his head in unison with hisshoulders—as might the statue of PerfectBeauty turn upon its pedestal—with itsbaser residue of suspicion, had beenhappily allayed by a closer acquaintancewith Allan. One must learn, it seemed, todistrust those lightning-strokes ofprejudice that flash but once at the firstcontact between human clouds.

Yet in the last year there had come anotherwonder that excited a suspicion whosetroubling-power was absurdly out of alltrue proportion.

It was in the matter of seeing things—thatis, funny things.

Doubtless she had told him a few thingsmore or less funny that had seemed tomove him to doubt or perplexity, or tomere seriousness; but, indeed, they hadseemed less funny to her after that. Forexample, she had told Aunt Bell theanecdote of the British lady of title whosays to her curate, concerning a worthyrelative by marriage lately passed away,toward whom she has felt kindly despitehis inferior station: "Of course I couldn'tknow him here—but we shall meet in

heaven." Aunt Bell had been edified bythis, remarking earnestly that suchdifferences would indeed be wiped out inheaven. Yet when Nancy went to Allan ina certain bubbling condition over theanecdote itself and Aunt Bell's commentthereon, he made her repeat it slowly,after the first hurried telling, and hadlaughed but awkwardly with her, rather asif it were expected of him—with an eyevacant of all but wonder—like a travellernot sure he had done right to take the left-hand turn at the last cross-roads.

Again, the bishop who ordained him had,in a relaxed and social moment after theceremony, related that little classic ofBishop Meade, who, during the fight overa certain disestablishment measure, was

asked by a lobbyist how he would vote.The dignified prelate had replied that hewould vote for the bill, for he held thatevery man should have the right to choosehis own way to heaven. None the less, hewould continue to be certain that agentleman would always take theEpiscopal way. To Nancy Allan retoldthis, adding,

"You know, I'm going to use it in a sermonsome time."

"Yes—it's very funny," she answered, alittle uncertainly.

"Funny?"

"Yes."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course—I've heard the bishop tell itmyself— and I know he thinks it funny."

"Well—then I'll use it as a funny story. Ofcourse, it is funny—I only thought"—whatit was he only thought Nancy never knew.

Small bits of things to wonder at, thesewere, and the wonder brought noillumination. She only knew there weretimes when they two seemed of differentworlds, bereft of power to communicate;and at these times his superbly assuredwooing left her slightly dazed.

But there were other times, and different—and slowly she became used to the ideaof him—persuaded both by his own courtand by the spirited encomiums that heevoked from Aunt Bell.

Aunt Bell was at that time only halfpersuaded by Allan to re-enter the churchof her blameless infancy. She was stillminded to seek a little longer outside thefold that rapport with the Universal Mindwhich she had never ceased to crave. Inthis process she had lately discardedEsoteric Buddhism for SubliminalMonitions induced by Psychic Breathingand correct breakfast-food. For all that,she felt competent to declare that Allanwas the only possible husband for herniece, and her niece came to suspect thatthis might be so.

When at last she had wondered herselfinto a state of inward readiness—a statestill governed by her outward habit ofresistance, this last was beaten down by a

letter from Mrs. Tednick, who had been aschool friend as Clara Tremaine, and wasnow married, apparently with results nottoo desirable.

"Never, my dear," ran the letter to Nancy,"permit yourself to think of marrying aman who has not a sense of humour. Do Iseem flippant? Don't think it. I amconveying to you the inestimable benefitsof a trained observation. Humour saves aman from being impossible in any numberof ways—from boring you to beating you.(You may live to realise that the tragedyof the first is not less poignant than that ofthe second.) Whisper, dear!—All men areequally vain—at least in their ways with awoman—but humour assuredly preservesmany unto death from betraying it

egregiously. Beware of him if he lack it.He has power to crucify you daily, and yetbe in honest ignorance of your tortures.Don't think I am cynical—and indeed, myown husband is one of the best and dearestof souls in the world, the biggest heart—but be sure you marry no man withouthumour. Don't think a man has it merelybecause he tells funny stories; the humourI mean is a kind of sense of the fitness ofthings that keeps a man from forgettinghimself. And if he hasn't humour, don'tthink he can make you happy, even if hisvanity doesn't show. He can't—after theexpiration of that brief period in which thevanity of each is a holy joy to the other.Remember now!"

Curiously enough this well-intended

homily had the effect of arousing in Nancyan instant sense of loyalty to Allan. Shesuffered little flashes of resentment at thethought that Clara Tremaine should seemto depreciate one toward whom she feltherself turning with a sudden defensivetenderness. And this, though it was clearto the level eye of reason that Clara musthave been generalising on observationsmade far from Edom. But her loyal spiritwas not less eager to resent an affrontbecause it might seem to have beenaimless.

And thereafter, though never ceasing towonder, Nancy was won. Her consent, atlength, went to him in her own volume ofBrowning, a pink rose shut in upon "AWoman's Last Word"—its petals bruised

against the verses:

"What so false astruth is, False to thee? Where the serpent'stooth is, Shun the tree.

"Where the applereddens, Never pry— Lest we lose ourEdens, Eve and I.

"Be a god and holdme With a charm!

Be a man and foldme With thine arm!"

That was a moment of sweetness, of utterrest, of joyous peace—fighting no longer.

A little while and he was before her,proud as a conquerer may be—glad as alover should.

"I always knew it, Nance—you had togive in."

Then as she drooped in his arms, a merefragrant, pulsing, glad submission——

"You have always pleased me, Nancy. Iknow I shall never regret my choice."

And Nancy, scarce hearing, wondered

happily on his breast.

CHAPTER IV

The Winning of Browett

A thoughtful Pagan once reported dignityto consist not in possessing honours, but inthe consciousness that we deserve them. Itis a theory fit to console multitudes.Edom's young rector was not onlyconsoled by it, he was stimulated. To hisardent nature, the consciousness ofdeserving honour was the first vital steptoward gaining it. Those things that hebelieved himself to deserve he forthwithsubjected to the magnetic rays of hisdesire: Knowing with the inborn certainty

of the successful, that they must finallyyield to such silent, coercing influence andsoon or late gravitate toward him inobedience to the same law that draws theapple to the earth's lap. In this manner hadthe young man won his prizes for oratory;so had he won his wife; so had he won hisfirst pastorate; so now would he win thatprize he was conscious of meriting next—a city parish—a rectorate in the chief seatof his church in America, where was allwealth and power as well as the greatamong men, to be swayed by hiseloquence and brought at last to theMaster's feet. And here, again, would hisfuture enlarge to prospects now but mistilysurmised—prospects to be moved uponanon with triumphant tread. Infiniteaspiration opening ever beyond itself—

this was his. Meantime, step by step, withzealous care for the accuracy of each, witheyes always ahead, leaving nothingundone—he was forever fashioning themoulds into which the Spirit shouldmaterialise his benefits.

The first step was the winning of Browett—old Cyrus Browett, whose villa, in thefashion of an English manor-house, was afeature of remark even to the Edomsummer dwellers—a villa whose widegrounds were so swept, garnished, trimlyflowered, hedge-bordered and shrub-upholstered that, to old Edom, they werelike stately parlours built foolishly out ofdoors.

Months had the rector of tiny St. Anne'swaited for Browett to come to him,

knowing that Browett must come in theend. One less instinctively wise wouldhave made the mistake of going toBrowett. Not this one, whose good spiritwarned him that his puissance lay ratherwith groups of men than with individuals.From back of the chancel railing he couldsway the crowd and make it all his own;whereas, taking that same crowd singly,and beyond his sacerdotal functions, hemight be at the mercy of each mancomposing it. He knew, in short, thatCyrus Browett as one of his congregationon a Sabbath morning would be a mereatom in the plastic cosmos below him;whereas Browett by himself, with thegranite hardness of his crag-like face, hiscool little green eyes—unemotional astwo algebraic x's—would be a matter

fearfully different. Even his whitemoustache, close-clipped as his ownhedges, and guarding a stiff, chilledmouth, was a thing grimly repressed,telling that the man was quite invulnerableto his own vanity. A human Browettwould have permitted that moustache tomitigate its surroundings with someflowing grace. He was, indeed, noadversary to meet alone in the open field—for one who could make him in a crowda mere string of many to his harp.

The morning so long awaited came on asecond Sunday after Trinity. CyrusBrowett, in whose keeping was the veryark of the money covenant, alighted fromhis coupé under the porte-cochère ofcandied Gothic and humbly took seat in

his pew like a mere worshipper of God.

As such—a man among men—the youngrector looked calmly down upon him,letting him sink into the crowd-entitywhich always became subject to him.

His rare, vibrant tones—tones thatsomehow carried the subdued light andwarmth of stained glass—rolled out inmoving volume:

"The Lord is in his holy temple: let all theearth keep silence before him."

Then, still as a mere worshipper of God,that Prince of the power of Mammondown in front knelt humbly to say after theyoung rector above him that he had erredand strayed like a lost sheep, followed toomuch the devices of his own heart, leaving

undone those things he ought to have done,and doing those things which he ought notto have done; that there was no health inhim; yet praying that he might, thereafter,lead a godly, righteous and sober life tothe glory of God's holy name. Even toAllan there was something affecting in this—a sort of sardonic absurdity inBrowett's actually speaking thus.

The kneeling financier was indeed agracious and lovely spectacle to the youngclergyman, and in his next words, abovethe still-bended congregation, his tonesgrew warmly moist with an unction thatthrilled his hearers as never before.Movingly, indeed, upon the authority thatGod hath given to his ministers, did hedeclare and pronounce to his people,

being penitent, the absolution andremission of their sins. Wonderful, intruth, had it been if his hearers did notthrill, for the minister himself was thrilledas never before. He, Allan DelcherLinford, was absolving and remitting thesins of a man whose millions werecounted by the hundred, a god of moneyand of power—who yet cringed beforehim out there like one who feared andworshipped.

Nor did he here make the mistake thatmany another would have made. Instead ofpreaching to Cyrus Browett alone—preaching at him—he preached as usual tohis congregation. If his glance fell, nowand then, upon the face of Browett, he sawit only through the haze of his own fervour

—a patch of granite-gray holding twopricking points of light. Not once wasBrowett permitted to feel himself morethan one of a crowd; not once was hepermitted to rise above his mere atomship,nor feel that he received more attentionthan the humblest worshipper in arrearsfor pew-rent. Yet, though the young rectorregarded Browett as but one of many, heknew infallibly the instant that invisiblewire was strung between them, and felt,thereafter, every tug of opposition orsignal of agreement that flashed fromBrowett's mind, knowing in the end,without a look, that he had won Browett'sapproval and even excited his interest.

For the sermon had been strangely,wonderfully suited to Browett's peculiar

tastes. Hardly could a sermon have beenbetter planned to win him. The choice ofthe text itself: "And thou shalt take no gift:for the gift blindeth the wise andperverteth the words of the righteous,"was perfect art.

The plea was for intellectual honesty, foracademic freedom, for fearlessindependence, which were said to be thecrowning glories in the diadem of man'sattributes. Fearlessly, then, did thespeaker depreciate both the dogmatism ofreligion and the dogmatism of science."Much of what we call religion," he said,"is only the superstition of the past; muchof what we call science is but thesuperstition of the present." He pleadedthat religion might be an ever-living

growth in the human heart, not a deadformulary of dogmatic origin. True,organisation was necessary, but in therealm of spiritual essentials a creeddrawn up in the fourth century should notbe treated as if it were the finalexpression of the religious consciousnessin secula seculorum. One should, indeed,be prepared for the perpetual restatementof religious truth, fearlessly submitting themost cherished convictions to the light ofeach succeeding age.

Yet, especially, should it not be forgottenin an age of ultra-physicism, of social andeconomic heterodoxies, that there mustever be in human society, according to theblessed ordinance of God, princes andsubjects, masters and proletariat, rich and

poor, learned and ignorant, nobles andplebeians—yet all united in the bonds oflove to help one another attain their moralwelfare on earth and their last end inheaven;—all united in the bonds offraternal good-will, independent yetacknowledging the sovereignty ofOmnipotence.

He closed with these words of Voltaire:"We must love our country whateverinjustice we suffer in it, as we must loveand serve the Supreme Being,notwithstanding the superstitions andfanaticism which so often dishonour Hisworship."

The sermon was no marked achievementin coherence, but neither was Browett acoherent personality. It was, however, a

swift, vivid sermon—a short and a busyone, with a reason for each of its parts,incoherent though the parts were. ForBrowett was a cynic doubter of his ownfaith; at once an admirer of Voltaire and abeliever in the Established Order ofThings; despising a radical and aconservative equally, but, hating morethan either, a clumsy compromiser. Hemust be preached to as one not yet broughtinto that flock purchased by God with theblood of His Son; and at the same time, asone who had always been of that flock andwas now inalienable from it. In a word,Browett's doubt and his belief had both tobe fed from the same spoon, a fact that allyoung preachers of God's word would nothave fathomed.

Thus our young rector proved his power.His future rolled visibly toward him.During the rest of that service theresounded in his ears an undertone from outthe golden centre of that future: "ReverendFather in God, we present unto you thisgodly and well-learned man to beordained and consecrated Bishop——"

Rewarded, indeed, was he for the troublehe had taken long months before to buildthat particular sermon to fit Browett, afterspecifications confided to him by anobliging parishioner—keeping it ready touse at a second's notice, on the firstmorning that Browett should appear.

How diminished would be that enviousrailing at Success could we but know thehidden pains by which alone its victories

of seeming ease are won!

The young minister could now meetBrowett as man to man, having establisheda prestige.

It had been said by those who would fainhave branded him with the stigma ofdisrepute that Browett's ethics wereinferior to those of the prairie wolf;meaning, perhaps, that he might kill moresheep than he could possibly devour.

Browett had views of his own in thismatter. As a tentative evolutionist helooked upon his survival asunimpeachable evidence of his fitness,—as the eagle is fitter than the lamb it mayfasten upon. Again, as a believer inRevealed Religion, he accepted humansociety according to the ordinance of God,

deeming himself as Master to be but therightful, divinely-instituted complement ofhis humblest servant—the two of themnecessary poles in the world spiritual.

One of the few fads of Browett being thememorial window, it was also said byenviers that if he would begin to erect awindow to every small competitor hisTrust had squeezed to death there wouldbe an unprecedented flurry in stainedglass. But Browett knew, as anevolutionist, that the eagle has a divineright to the lamb if it can come safely offwith it; as a Christian, that one carries outthe will of God as indubitably inpreserving the established order of princeand subject, of noble and plebeian, as ingiving of his abundance to relieve the

necessitous—or in endowing universitieswhich should teach the perpetualsacredness of the established order ofthings in Church and State.

In short, he derived comfort from bothpoles of his belief—one the God ofMoses, a somewhat emotional god, notentirely uncarnal—the other the god ofSpencer, an unemotional andunimaginative god of Law.

It followed that he was much taken with apreacher who could answer so appositelyto the needs of his soul as did thisimpressive young man in a chance sermonof unstudied eloquence.

There were social meetings in whichBrowett dispassionately confirmed theseearly impressions gained under the spell

of a matchless oratory, and in due timethere followed an invitation to the youngrector of St. Anne's of Edom to preach atthe Church of St. Antipas, which wasBrowett's city church.

CHAPTER V

A Belated Martyrdom

The rectory at Edom was hot with thefever of preparation. The invitation topreach at St. Antipas meant an offer of thatparish should the preaching be approved.It was a most desirable parish—Browett'scity church being as smart as one of hissteam yachts or his private train (fornothing less than a train sufficed him now—though there were those of the greeneyes who pretended to remember, withheavy sarcasm, the humbler day when hehad but a beggarly private car, coupled to

the rear of a common Limited). It was,moreover, a high church, its last rectorhaving been put away for the narrownessof refusing to "enrich the service." Thiswas the church and this the patron aboveall others that the Reverend Allan DelcherLinford would have chosen, and earnestlydid he pray that God in His wisdomimpart to him the grace to please Browettand those whom Browett permitted tohave a nominal voice in the control of St.Antipas.

Both Aunt Bell and Nancy came to feel thestrain of it all. The former promised to "gointo the silence" each day and "hold thethought of success," thereby drawingpsychic power for him from the Reservoirof the Eternal.

Nancy could only encourage by wifelysympathy, being devoid of those psychicpowers that distinguished Aunt Bell.Tenderly she hovered about Allan themorning he began to write the first of thethree sermons he was to preach.

As for him, though heavy with thepossibilities of the moment, he was yetcool and centred; resigned to what mightbe, yet hopeful; his manner wasdetermined, yet gentle, almost sweet—themanner of one who has committed all toGod and will now put no cup from him,how bitter soever.

"I am so hopeful, dearest, for your sake,"his wife said, softly, wishing to reveal hersympathy yet fearful lest she might obtrudeit. He was arranging many sheets of notes

before him.

"What will the first one be?" she asked.He straightened in his chair.

"I've made up my mind, Nance! It's awealthy congregation—one of thewealthiest in the city—but I shall preachfirst from the parable of Dives andLazarus."

"Isn't that—a little—wouldn't somethingelse do as well—something that wouldn'tseem quite so personal?"

He smiled up with fond indulgence."That's the woman of it—concession fortemporal advantage." Then more seriouslyhe added, "I wouldn't be true to myself,Nance, if I went down there in any spiritof truckling to wealth. Public approval is

a most desirable luxury, I grant you—wealth and ease are desirable luxuries,and the favour of those in power—butthey're only luxuries. And I know in thismatter but one real necessity: my ownself-approval. If consciously I preached apolite sermon there, my own soul wouldaccuse me and I should be as a leaf in thewind for power. No, Nance—never urgeme to be untrue to that divine Christ-selfwithin me! If I cannot be my best selfbefore God, I am nothing. I must preachChrist and Him crucified, whether it be tothe wealthy of St. Antipas or only tobelieving poverty."

Stung with contrition, she was quick tosay, "Oh, my dearest, I didn't mean you tobe untrue! Only it seemed unnecessary to

affront them in your very first sermon."

"I have been divinely guided, Nance. Noconsiderations of expediency can deflectme now. This had to be! I admit that I hadmy hour of temptation—but that has gone,and thank God my integrity survives it."

"Oh, how much bigger you are than I am,dearest!" She looked down at him proudlyas she stood close to his side, smoothingthe tawny hair. Then she laid one fingeralong his lips and made the least littlekissing noise with her own lips—a trickof affection learned in the early days oftheir love. After a little she stole from hisside, leaving him with head bent inprayerful study —to be herself alone withher new assurance.

It was moments like this that she had come

to long for and to feed her love upon. Norneed it be concealed that there had notbeen one such for many months. Thesituation had been graver than she waswilling to acknowledge to herself. Notonly had she not ceased to wonder sincethe first days of her marriage, but she hadbegun to smile in her wonder, fancyingfrom time to time that certain plainanswers came to it—and not at allrealising that a certain kind of smile islove's unforgivable blasphemy; consciousonly that the smile left a strange hurt in herheart.

For a little hour she stayed alone with herjoy, fondly turning the light of her newlyfed faith upon an idol whose clearness ofline and purity of tint had become blurred

in a dusk of wondering—an idol that hadbegun, she now realised with a shudder, tobulk almost grotesquely through thatdeepening gloom of doubt.

Now all was well again. In this new lightthe dear idol might even at times show adual personality—one kneeling beside hervery earnestly to worship the other withher. Why not, since the other showed itselftruly worthy of adoration? With faith madenew in her husband—and, therefore, inGod—she went to Aunt Bell.

She found that lady in touch with thecosmic forces, over her book, "TheBeautiful Within," her particular chapterbeing headed, "Psychology of Rest:Rhythms and Sub-rhythms of Activity andRepose; their Synchronism with

Subliminal Spontaneity." Over this frankrevelation of hidden truths Aunt Bell'shandsome head was, for the moment,nodding in sub-rhythms of psychicplacidity—a state from which Nancy'sanimated entrance sufficed to arouse her.As the proud wife spoke, she divestedherself of the psychic restraint withsomething very like a carnal yawn behindher book.

"Oh, Aunt Bell! Isn't Allan fine! Ofcourse, in a way, it's too bad—doubtlesshe'll spoil his chances for the thing I knowhe's set his heart upon—and he knows it,too—but he's going calmly ahead as if theday for martyrs to the truth hadn't longsince gone by. Oh, dear, martyrs are sodowdy and out-of-date—but there he is, a

great, noble, beautiful soul, with a senseof integrity and independence that isstunning!"

"What has Allan been saying now?" askedAunt Bell, curiously unmoved.

"Said? It's what he's doing! The dear, big,stupid thing is going down there to preachthe very first Sunday about Dives andLazarus—the poor beggar in Abraham'sbosom and the rich man down below, youremember?" she added, as Aunt Bellseemed still to hover about the centre ofpsychic repose.

"Well?"

"Well, think of preaching that primitivedoctrine to any one in this age—then thinkof a young minister talking it to a church of

rich men and expecting to receive a callfrom them!"

Aunt Bell surveyed the plump anddimpled whiteness of her small handswith more than her usual studiouscomplacence. "My dear," she said at last,"no one has a greater admiration for Allanthan I have —but I've observed that heusually knows what he's about."

"Indeed, he knows what he's about now,Aunt Bell!" There was a swift littlewarmth in her tones—"but he says he can'tdo otherwise. He's going deliberately tospoil his chances for a call to St. Antipasby a piece of mere early-Christianquixotism. And you must see how great heis, Aunt Bell. Do you know—there havebeen times when I've misjudged Allan. I

didn't know his simple genuineness. Hewants that church, yet he will not, as somany in his place would do, make theleast concession to its people."

Aunt Bell now brought a coldly criticalscrutiny to bear upon one small foot whichshe thrust absently out until its profilecould be seen.

"Perhaps he will have his reward," shesaid. "Although it is many years since Ibroadened into what I may call the higherunbelief, I have never once suspected, mydear, that merit fails of its reward. Andabove all, I have faith in Allan, in his—well, his psychic nature is so perfectlyattuned with the Universal that Allansimply cannot harm himself. Even whenhe seems deliberately to invite misfortune,

fortune comes instead. So cheer up, andabove all, practise going into the silenceand holding the thought of success for him.I think Allan will attend very acceptablyto the mere details."

CHAPTER VI

The Walls of St. Antipas Fallat the Third Blast

On that dreaded morning a few weekslater, when the young minister faced athronged St. Antipas at eleven o'clockservice, his wife looked up at him fromAunt Bell's side in a pew well forward—the pew of Cyrus Browett—looked up athim in trembling, loving wonder. Then alittle tender half-smile of perfect faithwent dreaming along her just-parted lips.Let the many prototypes of Dives in St.Antipas—she could see the relentless

profile of their chief at her right—beoffended by his rugged speech: he shouldfind atoning comfort in her new love. LikeLuther, he must stand there to say out thesoul of him, and she was prostrate beforehis brave greatness.

When, at last, he came to read the bitingverses of the parable, her heart beat as ifit would be out to him, her face paled andhardened with the strain of his ordeal.

"And it came to pass that the beggardied and was carried by the angelsinto Abraham's bosom; the rich manalso died and was buried.

"And in hell he lifted up his eyes,being in torments, and seeth Abrahamafar off and Lazarus in his bosom.

"And he cried and said, 'FatherAbraham, have mercy on me andsend Lazarus that he may dip the tipof his finger in water and cool mytongue; for I am tormented in thisflame.'

"But Abraham said, 'Son, rememberthat thou in thy lifetime receivedst thygood things, and likewise Lazarusevil things; but now he is comfortedand thou art tormented.'"

The sermon began. Unflinchingly thepreacher pointed out that Dives,apparently, lay in hell for no other reasonthan that he had been a rich man; no sinwas imputed to him; not even unbelief; hehad not only transgressed no law, but wasdoubtless a respectable, God-fearing man

of irreproachable morals—sent to hell forhis wealth.

And Lazarus appeared to have wonheaven merely by reason of his poverty.No virtue, no active good conduct, wasaccredited to him.

Reading with the eye of commonunderstanding, Jesus taught that the richmerited eternal torment by reason of theirriches, and the poor merited eternal life byreason of their poverty, a belief that onemight hear declared even to-day. Nor wasthis view attested solely by this parable.Jesus railed constantly at those in highplaces, at the rich and at lawyers, and thechief priests and elders and those inauthority—declaring that he had been sent,not to them, but to the poor who needed a

physician.

But was there not a seeming inconsistencyhere in the teachings of the Master? If thepoor achieved heaven automatically bytheir mere poverty, why were they stillneeding a physician? Under that view,why were not the rich those who needed aphysician—according to the literal wordsof Jesus?

Up to the close of this passage the orator'smanner had been one of glacial severity—of a sternness apparently checked by rareself-control from breaking into adenunciation of the modern Dives. Thenall was changed. His face softened andlighted; the broad shoulders seemed torelax from their uncompromisingsquareness; he stood more easily upon his

feet; he glowed with a certain encouragingcompanionableness.

Was that, indeed, the teaching of Jesus—as if in New York to-day he might say, "Ihave come to Third Avenue rather than toFifth?" Can this crudely literal reading ofhis words prevail? Does it not carry itsown refutation—the extreme absurdity ofsupposing that Jesus would come to thesqualid Jews of the East Side anddenounce the better elements that maintaina church like St. Antipas?

The fallacy were easily probed. A modernintelligence can scarcely prefigure heavenor hell as a reward or punishment formere carnal comfort or discomfort —asmany literal-minded persons believe thatJesus taught. The Son of Man was too

subtle a philosopher to teach that a richman is lost by his wealth and a poor mansaved by his poverty, though primitiveminds took this to be his meaning. Someprimitive minds still believe this—witness the frequent attempts to read aliteral meaning into certain other words ofJesus: the command, for example, that aman should give up his cloak also, if he besued for his coat. Little acumen isrequired to see that no society couldprotect itself against the depredations ofthe lawless under such a system of non-resistance; and we may be sure that Jesushad no intention of tearing down the socialstructure or destroying vested rights.Those who demand a literal constructionof the parable of Dives and Lazarus mustlook for it in the Bowery melodrama,

wherein the wealthy only are vicious andpoverty alone is virtuous.

We have only to consider the rawness ofthis conception to perceive that Jesus isnot to be taken literally.

Who, then, is the rich man and who thepoor—who is the Dives and who theLazarus of this intensely dramaticparable?

Dives is but the type of the spiritually richman who has not charity for his spirituallypoor brother; of the man rich in faith whowill not trouble to counsel the doubting; ofthe one rich in humility who will yet notseek to save his neighbour fromarrogance; of him rich in charity whoindifferently views his uncharitablebrethren; of the man rich in hope who will

not strive to make hopeful the despairing;of the one rich in graces of the Holy Ghostwho will not seek to reclaim theunsanctified beggar at his gate.

And who is Lazarus but a type of theaspiring—the soul-hungry, whether he bea millionaire or a poor clerk —thedetermined seeker whose eye is single andwhose whole body is full of light? In thisview, surely more creditable to theintellect of our Saviour, mere materialwealth ceases to signify; the Dives ofspiritual reality may be the actual beggarrich in faith yet indifferent to the soul-hunger of the faithless; while poor Lazarusmay be the millionaire, thirsting,hungering, aspiring, day after day, forcrumbs of spiritual comfort that the

beggar, out of the abundance of his faith,would never miss.

Christianity has suffered much from ourfailure to give the Saviour due credit forsubtlety. So far as money—mere wealth—is a soul-factor at all, it must be held toincrease rather than to diminish itspossessor's chances of salvation, but notin merely providing the refinements ofculture and the elegances of modern luxuryand good taste, important though these areto the spirit's growth. The true value ofwealth to the soul—a value difficult toover-estimate—is that it providesopportunity for, and encourages thecultivation of, that virtue which is "thegreatest of all these"; that virtue which"suffereth long and is kind; which vaunteth

not itself and is not puffed up"—Charity,in short. While not denying the simple joysof penury, nor forgetting the Saviour'spromises to the poor and meek and lowly,it is still easy to understand that charity isless likely to be a vigorous soul-growth ina poor man than in a rich. The poor manmay possess it as a germ, a seed; but therich man is, through superior prowess inthe struggle for existence, in a position tocultivate this virtue; and who will say thathe has not cultivated it? Certainly no oneacquainted with the efforts of our wealthymen to uplift the worthy poor. A certainmodern sentimentality demands thatpoverty be abolished —ignoring thosepregnant words of Jesus—"the poor yeh a v e always with you"—forgetting,indeed, that human society is composed of

unequal parts, even as the human body;that equality exists among the socialmembers only in this: that all men havetheir origin in God the Creator, havesinned in Adam, and have been, by thesacrificial blood of God's only begottenSon, born of the Virgin Mary, equallyredeemed into eternal life, if they will butaccept Christ as their only true Saviour;—forgetting indeed that to abolish povertywould at once prevent all manifestationsof human nature's most beauteous trait andvirtue—Charity.

Present echoes from the business worldindicate that the poor man to-day, with hisvicious discontent, his preposterous hopesof trades-unionism, and his impracticableand very un-Christian dreams of an

industrial millennium, is the true andveritable Dives, rich in arrogance andpoor in that charity of judgment which themillionaire has so abundantly shownhimself to possess.

The remedy was for the world to come uphigher. Standing upon one of the grand oldpeaks of the Rocky Mountains, the speakerhad once witnessed a scene in the valleybelow which, for beauty of illustration ofthe thought in hand, the world could notsurpass. He told his hearers what thescene was. And he besought them to comeup to the rock of Charity and mingle in theblue serene. Charity—a tear dropped onthe world's cold cheek of intolerance tomake it burn forever! Or it was the grandmotor-power which, like a giant engine,

has rolled the car of civilisation out fromthe maze of antiquity into the light of thepresent day where it now waits to befreighted with the precious fruits of livinggenius, then to speed on to that hoped-forgolden era when truth shall rise as a newand blazing star to light the splendidpageantry of earth, bound together in onelaw of universal brotherhood,independent, yet acknowledging thesovereignty of Omnipotence. Charityindeed was what Voltaire meant toinculcate when he declared: "Atheism andfanaticism are the two poles of a universeof confusion and horror. The narrow zoneof virtue is between these two. Marchwith a firm step in that path; believe in agood God and do good."

The peroration was beautifully simple,thrilling the vast throng with a suddendeeper conviction of the speaker'searnestness: "Charity! Oh, of all theflowers that have swung their goldencensers in the parterre of the human heart,none so rich, so rare as this one flower ofcharity. Other flowers there may be thatyield as rich perfume, but they must becrushed before their fragrance becomesperceptible; but this flower at early morn,at burning noon and when the dew of eveis on the flowers, has coursed its waydown the garden walk, out through thedeep, dark dell, over the burning plain,and up the mountain side—up, ever UP itrises into the beautiful blue—up along thecloudy corridors of the day, up along themisty pathway to the skies till it touches

the beautiful shore and mingles with thebreath of angels."

Hardly was there a dissenting voice in allSt. Antipas that Sabbath upon the proposalthat this powerful young preacher becalled to its pulpit. The few who warilysuggested that he might be too visionary,not sufficiently in touch with the presentday, were quieted the following Sabbathby a very different sermon on certainflaws in the fashionable drama.

The one and only possible immorality inthis world, contended the speaker, wasuntruth. A sermon was as immoral as anystage play if the soul of it was not Truth;and a stage play became as moral as asermon if its soul was truth. The specialform of untruth he attacked was what he

styled "the drama of the glorified wanton."Warmly and ably did he denounce thepernicious effect of those plays, that takethe wanton for a heroine andsentimentalise her into a morbidattractiveness. The stage should show life,and the wanton, being of life, might beportrayed; but let it be with ruthlessfidelity. She must not be falsified into acreature of fine sensibilities and loftyemotions—a thing of dangerousplausibility to the innocent.

The last doubter succumbed on the thirdSabbath, when he preached from thewarning of Jesus that many would comeafter him, performing in his name wondersthat might deceive, were it possible, eventhe very elect. The sermon likened this

generation to the people Paul found inAthens, running curiously after any newgod; after Christian Science—which hetook the liberty of remarking was neitherChristian nor scientific—or mentalscience, spiritism, theosophy,clairvoyance, all black arts, straying fromthe fold of truth into outer darkness—forgetting that "God so loved the worldthat he gave his only begotten Son, thatwhosoever believed therein might notperish, but have everlasting life." As thiswas the sole means of salvation that Godhad provided, the time was, obviously,one fraught with vital interest to everythinking man.

As a sagacious member of the Board ofTrustees remarked, it would hardly have

been possible to preach three sermonsbetter calculated, each in its way, to winthe approval of St. Antipas.

The call came and was accepted after thesigns of due and prayerful consideration.But as for Nancy, she had left off certainof her wonderings forever.

CHAPTER VII

There Entereth the Serpentof Inappreciation

For the young rector of St. Antipas therefollowed swift, rich, high-coloured days—days in which he might have framedmore than one triumphant reply to that poetwho questioned why the spirit of mortalshould be proud, intimating that it shouldnot be.

Also was the handsome young rector'sparish proud of him; proud of hisexecutive ability as shown in the

management of its many organisedactivities, religious and secular; itsBrotherhood of St. Bartholomew, itsMen's Club, Women's MissionaryAssociation, Guild and Visiting Society,King's Daughters, Sewing School, PoorFund, and still others; proud of hisdecorative personality, his impressiveoratory and the modern note in hispreaching; proud that its ushers must eachSabbath morning turn away many late-comers. Indeed, the whole parish had beenborn to a new spiritual life since that daywhen the worship at St. Antipas had beenkept simple to bareness by a stubborn andperverse reactionary. In this happier daySt. Antipas was known for its advancedritual, for a service so beautifullyenriched that a new spiritual warmth

pervaded the entire parish. The doctrineof the Real Presence was not timidlyminced, but preached unequivocally, withdignified boldness. Also there was aconfessional, and the gracious burning ofincense. In short, St. Antipas throve, andthe grace of the Holy Ghost palpably tookpossession of its worshippers. The churchwas become the smartest church in thediocese, and its communicants were heldto have a tone.

And to these communicants their rector ofthe flawless pulchritude was a graciousspectacle, not only in the performance ofhis sacerdotal offices, but on thethoroughfares of the city, where hisdistinction was not less apparent thanback of the chancel rail.

A certain popular avenue runs betweenrows of once splendid mansions nowstruggling a little awkwardly into trade ontheir lowest floors, like impoverished butcourageous gentlefolk. To these littletragedies, however, the pedestrian throngis obtuse—blind to the pathos of thosestill haughty upper floors, silent andreserved, behind drawn curtains, whilethe lower two floors are degraded intoshops. In so far as the throng is not busiedwith itself, its attention is upon theroadway, where is ever passing a festivalprocession of Success, its floats of WorthRewarded being the costliest and shiniestof the carriage-maker's craft—eloquent oftrue dignity and fineness even in the swiftsilence of their rubber tires. This is aspectacle to be viewed seriously; to be

mocked at only by the flippant, though themoving pedestrian mass on the sidewalkis gayer of colour, more sentient—morecompanionable, more understandablyhuman.

It was in this weaving mass on the walkthat the communicants of St. Antipas wereoften refreshed by the vision of theirrector on pleasant afternoons. Here theReverend Doctor Linford loved to walk inGod's sunlight out of sheer simple joy inliving—happily undismayed by anypossible consciousness that his progressturned all faces to regard him, asinevitably as one would turn the spokes ofan endless succession of turnstyles.

Habited with an obviously loving attentionto detail, yet with tasteful restraint, a

precise and frankly confessed, yet neverobtrusive, elegance, bowing with amanner to those of his flock favoured byheaven to meet him, superbly, masculinelyhandsome, he was far more than a merejustification of the pride St. Antipas felt inhim. He was a splendid inspiration tobelief in God and man.

Nor was he of the type Pharasaic—thetype to profess love for its kind, yet stayscrupulously aloof from the vanquishedand court only the victors. Indeed, thiswas not so.

In the full tide of his progress—it wasindeed a progress and never a mere walk—he would stop to address a few wordsof simple cheer to the aged femalemendicant—perhaps to make a joke with

her—some pleasantry not unbefitting hisstation, his mien denoting a tenderchivalry which has been agreeablysubdued though not impaired by theexperience inevitable to a man of theworld. When he dropped the coin into thewithered palm, he did it with a certainlingering hurriedness, as one franklyunable to repress a human weakness,though nervously striving to have it overquickly and by stealth.

Young Rigby Reeves, generalising, as itlater appeared, from inadequate data,swore once that the rector of St. Antipaskept always an eye ahead for the femalemendicant in the tattered shawl and thebonnet of inferior modishness; that, if theAvenue was crowded enough to make it

seem worth while, he would even crossfrom one side to the other for the sake ofspeaking to her publicly.

While the fact so declared may have beena fact, the young man's corollary that therector of St. Antipas sought thisexperience for the sake of its merepublicity came from a prejudice whichcloser acquaintance with Dr. Linfordhappily dissolved from his mind. Asreasonably might he have averred, as didanother cynic, that the rector of St. Antipaswas actuated by the instincts of amountebank when he selected his eveningpapers each day—deliberately and withkind words— from the stock of anewswoman at a certain conspicuous andever-crowded crossing. As reasonable

was the imputation of this other cynic, thatin greeting friends upon the throngedavenue, the rector never failed to usesome word or phrase that would identifyhim to those passing, giving the personaddressed an unpleasant sense of beingplaced in a lime-light, yet reducing him toan insignificance just this side the line ofobliteration.

"You say, 'Ah, Doctor!' and shake hands,you know," said this hypercriticalobserver, "and, ten to one, he sayssomething about St. Antipas directly, youknow, or—'Tell him to call on Dr. Linfordat the rectory adjoining St. Antipas—I'malways there at eleven,' or 'Yes, quite true,the bishop said to me, "My dear Linford,we depend on you in this matter,"' or

telling how Mrs. General Somebody-Something, you know—I never couldremember names—took him downdreadfully by calling him the mostdangerously fascinating man in New York.And there you are, you know! It neverfails, on my word! And all the time peopleare passing and turning to stare and listen,you know, so that it's quite rowdy—saying'Yes—that's Linford— there he is,' quiteas if they were on one of those coachesseeing New York; and you feel, by Jove, Igive you my word, like the solemn asswho goes up on the stage to help thefellow do his tricks, you know, when hecalls for 'some kind gentleman from theaudience.'"

It may be told that this other person was of

a cynicism hopelessly indurated. Not sowith Rigby Reeves, even after Reevesalleged the other discoveries that therector of St. Antipas had "a walk thatwould be a strut, by gad! if he was asshort as I am"; also that he "walked like aparade," which, as expounded by Mr.Reeves, meant that his air in walking wasthat of one conscious always of leading atriumphal procession in his own honour;and again, that one might read in his eyes akeenly sensuous enjoyment in the tones ofhis own voice; that he coloured these witha certain unction corresponding to theflourishes with which people of a certainobliquity of mind love to ornament theirchirography; still again that he, Reeves,was "ready to lay a bet that the fellowwould continue to pose even at the foot of

the Great White Throne."

Happily this young man was won out ofhis carping attitude by closer acquaintancewith the rector of St. Antipas, and learnedto regard those things as no more than theinseparable antennae of a nature unusuallyendowed with human warmth and richness—mere meaningless projections from apersonality simple, rugged, genuine, neversubtle, and entirely likable. He came tofeel that, while the rector himself wasunaffectedly impressed by that profusionof gifts with which it had pleased heavento distinguish him, he was yet constantlyannoyed and embarrassed by the fact thathe was thus made so salient a man. YoungReeves found him an appreciative person,moreover, one who betrayed a sensible

interest in a fellow's own achievements,finding many reasons to be impressed by afew little things in the way of athletics,travel, and sport that had never seemed atall to impress the many—not even themembers of one's own family. RigbyReeves, indeed, became an ardent partisanof Dr. Linford, attending servicesreligiously with his mother and sisters—and nearly making a row in the club caféone afternoon when the other and moreobdurate cynic declared, with a fineassumption of the judicial, that Linfordwas "the best actor in New York—on thestage or off!"

It was concerning this habit of the dailystroll that Aunt Bell and her niece alsodisagreed one afternoon. They were in the

little dark-wooded, red-walled library ofthe rectory, Aunt Bell with her book ofdevotion, Nancy at her desk, writing.

From her low chair near the window,Aunt Bell had just beheld the Doctor'serect head, its hat of flawless gloss, andhis beautifully squared shoulders,progress at a moderate speed across hernarrow field of vision. In so stiffly a levelline had they passed that a profane thoughtseized her unawares: the fancy that therector of St. Antipas had been pulled bythe window on rollers. But this was atonce atoned for. She observed that Allanwas one of the few men who walk alwayslike those born to rule. Then she spoke:

"Nancy, why do you never walk withAllan in the afternoon? Nothing would

please him better—the boy is positivelyproud to have you."

"Oh, I had to finish this letter to Clara,"Nancy answered abstractedly, as if stillintent upon her writing, debating a wordwith narrowed eyes and pen-tip at herteeth.

But Aunt Bell was neither to bemisunderstood nor insufficientlyanswered.

"Not this afternoon, especially—anyafternoon. I can't remember when you'vewalked with him. So many times I'veheard you refuse—and I dare say it doesn'tplease him, you know."

"Oh, he has often told me so."

"Well?"

"Aunt Bell—I—Oh, you've walked on thestreet with Allan!"

"To be sure I have!"

"Well!"

"Well—of course—that is true in a way—Allan does attract attention the moment hereaches the pavement— and of courseevery one stares at one—but it isn't thepoor fellow's fault. At least, if the boywere at all conscious of it he might in verylittle ways here and there prevent the verytiniest bit of it—but, my dear, yourhusband is a man of most strikingappearance— especially in the clericalgarb—even on that avenue over therewhere striking persons abound—and it'snot to be helped. And I can't wonder he'snot pleased with you when it gives him

such pleasure to have a modish andhandsome young woman at his side. I methim the other day walking down fromForty-second Street with that stunning-looking Mrs. Wyeth, and he looked ashappy and bubbling as a schoolboy."

"Oh—Aunt Bell—but of course, if youdon't see, I couldn't possibly tell you." Sheturned suddenly to her letter, as if todismiss the hopeless task.

Now Aunt Bell, being entirely human,would not keep silence under anintimation that her powers of discernmentwere less than phenomenal. The tone ofher reply, therefore, hinted of much.

"My child—I may see and gather andunderstand much more than I give any signof."

It was a wretchedly empty boast.Doubtless it had never been true of AuntBell at any time in her life, but she wasnettled now: one must present frowningfortifications at a point where one isattacked, even if they be only ofpasteboard. Then, too, a random claim topossess hidden fruits of observation isoften productive. Much reticence goesdown before it.

Nancy turned to her again with a kind ofrelief in her face.

"Oh, Aunt Bell, I was sure of it—Icouldn't tell you, but I was sure you mustsee!" Her pen was thrown aside and shedrooped in her chair, her hands listless inher lap.

Aunt Bell looked sympathetically voluble

but wisely refrained from speech.

"I wonder," continued the girl, "if youknew at the time, the time when my eyesseemed to open—when I was deceived byhis pretension into thinking—youremember that first sermon, Aunt Bell—how independent and noble I thought itwas going to be. Oh, Aunt Bell—what aslump in my faith that day! I think itsfoundations all went, and then naturallythe rest of it just seemed to topple. Didyou realise it all the time?"

So it was religious doubt—a loss of faith—heterodoxy? Having listened until shegathered this much, Aunt Bell broke in—"My dear, you must let me guide you inthis. You know what I've been through.Study the higher criticism, reverently, if

you will— even broaden into the higherunbelief. Times have changed since myyouth; one may broaden into almostanything now and still be orthodox,especially in our church. But beware ofthe literal mind, the material view ofthings. Remember that the essentials ofChristianity are spiritually historic even ifthey aren't materially historic—facts in thehuman consciousness if not in the world ofmatter. You need not pretend tounderstand how God can be one inessence and three in person—I grant youthat is only a reversion to polytheism andis so regarded by the best Biblicalscholars— but never surrender your beliefin the atoning blood of the Son whom Hesent a ransom for many—at least as aspiritual fact. I myself have dismissed the

Trinity as one of those mysteries to beadoringly believed on earth andcomprehended only in heaven—but thatGod so loved the world that he gave hisonly begotten Son—Child, do you think Icould look forward without fear to facingGod, if I did not believe that the blood ofhis only begotten Son had washed from mysoul that guilt of the sin I committed inAdam? Cling to these simple essentials,and otherwise broaden even into thehigher unbelief, if you like——"

"But, Aunt Bell, it isn't that! I nevertrouble about those things—though youhave divined truly that I have doubtedthem lately—but the doubts don't distressme. Actually, Aunt Bell, for a woman tolose faith in her God seems a small matter

beside losing faith in her husband. Youcan doubt and reason and speculate andargue about the first—it's fashionable—people rather respect unbelieversnowadays—but Oh, Aunt Bell, how theother hurts!"

"But, my child—my preposterous child!How can you have lost faith in thathusband of yours? What nonsense! Do youmean you have taken seriously thoseharmless jesting little sallies of his aboutthe snares and pitfalls of a clergyman'slife, or his tales of how this or that sillywoman has allowed him to detect in herthat pure reverence which most women dofeel for a clergyman, whether he'shandsome or not? Take Mrs. Wyeth, forexample——"

"Oh, Aunt Bell—no, no—how can youthink——"

"I admit Allan is the least bit—er—redundant of those anecdotes—perhapsjust the least bit insistent about the snaresand pitfalls that beset an attractive man inhis position. But really, my dear—I knowmen—and you need never feel a twinge ofjealousy. For one thing, Allan would beheld in bounds by fear of the world, evenif his love for you were inadequate to holdhim."

"It's no use trying to make you understand,Aunt Bell—you can't!"Whereupon Aunt Bell neglected herformer device of pretending that she did,indeed, understand, and bluntly asked:

"Well, what is it, child?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing, Aunt Bell—it'sonly what he is."

"What he is? A handsome, agreeable,healthy, good-tempered, loyal, upright,irreproachable——"

"Aunt Bell, he's killing me. I seem to wantto laugh when I tell you, because it's sofunny that he should have the power to—but I tell you he's killing out all the goodin me—a little bit every day. I can't evenwant to be good. Oh, how stupid to thinkyou could see— that any one could see!Sometimes I do forget and laugh all atonce. It's as grotesque and unreal as animaginary monster I used to be afraid of—then I'm sick, for I remember we arebound together by the laws of God and

man. Of course, you can't see, Aunt Bell—the fire hasn't eaten through yet—but I tellyou it's burning inside day and night."

She laughed a little, as if to reassure herpuzzled listener.

"A fire eating away inside, Aunt Bell—burning out my goodness—if the firemenwould only come with engines and axesand hooks and things, and water— I'dsubmit to being torn apart as meekly asany old house—it hurts so!"

CHAPTER VIII

The Apple of Doubt IsNibbled

The rector of St. Antipas came frompreaching his Easter sermon. He waselated. Of the sermons delivered in NewYork that morning, he suspected that hiswould be found not the least ingenious.Telling excerpts would doubtless appearin the next day's papers, and at least onepaper would reprint his favourite likenessover the caption, "Dr. Allan DelcherLinford, the Handsome and Up-to-DateRector of St. Antipas." Under this would

be head-lines: "The Resurrection Proved;a Literal Fact in History not less than aSpiritual Fact in the HumanConsciousness. An Unbroken Chain ofLiving Witnesses."

He even worded scraps of the article onhis way from the church to his study:

"An unusually rich Easter service washeld at fashionable St. Antipas yesterdaymorning. The sermon by its able andhandsome young rector, the Reverend Dr.Linford, was fraught with vital interest toevery thinking man. The Resurrection hedeclares to be a fact as well attested asthe Brooklyn Bridge is to thousands whohave never seen it—yet who areconvinced of its existence upon thetestimony of those who have. Thus one

who has never seen this bridge may be ascertain of its existence as a man whocrosses it twice a day. In the same way, awitness to the risen Christ tells theglorious truth to his son, a lad of fifteen,who at eighty tells it to his grandson. 'Doyou realise,' said the magnetic youngpreacher, 'that the assurance of theResurrection comes to you this morning byword of mouth through a scant threethousand witnesses—a living chain of lessthan three thousand links by which we maytrace our steps back to the presence of thefirst witness—so that, in effect, we havethe Resurrection on the word of a manwho beheld the living Saviour this verymorning? Nay; further, in effect weourselves stand trembling before thatstone rolled away from the empty but

forever hallowed tomb. As certainly asthousands know that a structure called theBrooklyn Bridge exists, so upon testimonyof the same validity do we know that"God so loved the world that he gave hisonly begotten Son, that whosoeverbelieved on him might not perish but haveeverlasting life." God has not expected usto trust blindly: he has presented tangibleand compelling evidence of his gloriousscheme of salvation.' The speaker, who isalways imbued with the magnetism of astriking personality, was more thanusually effective on this occasion, andvisibly moved the throng of fashionableworshippers that——"

"Allan, you outdid yourself!" Aunt Bellhad come in and, in the mirror over the

dining-room mantel, was bestowingglances of unaffected but strictly impartialadmiration upon the bonnet of lilacblossoms that rested above the lustrouspuffs of her plenteous gray hair.

The young man looked up from hismeditative pacing of the room.

"Aunt Bell, I think I may say that I pleasedmyself this morning—and you know that'snot easy for me."

"It's too bad Nance wasn't there!"

"Nancy is not pleasing me," began herhusband, in gentle tones.

"I didn't feel equal to it, Allan," his wifecalled from the library.

"Oh, you're there! My dear, you give up

too easily to little indispositions thatanother woman would make nothing of.I've repeated that to you so often that,really, your further ignoring it appearsdangerously like perverseness——"

"Is she crying?" he asked Aunt Bell, asthey both listened.

"Laughing!" replied that lady.

"My dear, may I ask if you are laughing atme?"

"Dear, no!—only at something I happenedto think of." She came into the dining-room, a morning paper in her hand."Besides, in to-morrow's paper I shallread all about what the handsome rector ofSt. Antipas said, in his handsome voice, tohis handsome hearers——"

He had frowned at first, but now smiledindulgently, as they sat down to luncheon." Yo u will have your joke about myappearance, Nance! That reminds me—that poor romantic little Mrs. Eversley—sister of Mrs. Wyeth, you know—said tome after service this morning, 'Oh, Dr.Linford, if I could only believe inChristian dogma as I believe in you as aman!' You know, she's such a painfullyemotional, impulsive creature, and thenColonel Godwin who stood by had tohave his joke: 'The symbol will serve youfor worship, Madam!' he says; 'I'm sure nowoman's soul would ever be lost if allclergymen were as good to look upon asour friend here!' Those things alwaysmake me feel so awkward—they are saidso bluntly—but what could I do?"

"Mr. Browett's sister and her son were outwith him this morning," began Aunt Bell,charitably entering another channel ofconversation from the intuition that herniece was wincing. But, as notinfrequently happened, the seeming outletmerely gave again into the main channel.

"And there's Browett," continued theDoctor. "Now I am said to have greatinfluence over women—women trust me,believe me—I may even say look up to me— but I pledge you my word I amconscious of wielding an immenselygreater influence over men. There seemsto be in my ego the power to prevail. TakeBrowett— most men are afraid of him—not physical fear, but their inner selves,their egos, go down before him. Yet from

the moment I first saw that man Idominated him. It's all in having an egothat means mastery, Aunt Bell. Browetthas it himself, but I have a greater one.Every time Browett's eyes meet mine heknows in his soul that I'm his master—hisego prostrates itself before mine— andyet that man"—he concluded in a tone ofdistinguishable awe—"is worth all theway from two to three hundred millions!"

"Mrs. Eversley is an unlucky little woman,from what I hear," began Aunt Bell, oncemore with altruistic aims.

"That reminds me," said the Doctor,recalling himself from a downward lookat the grovelling Browett, "she made mepromise to be in at four o'clock. Really Icouldn't evade her—it was either four

o'clock to-day or the first possible day.What could I do? Aunt Bell, I won'tpretend that this being looked up to andsought out is always disagreeable.Contrary to the Pharisee, I say 'Thank GodI am as other men are!' I have my humanmoments, but mostly it bores me, andespecially these half-religious, half-sentimental confidences of emotionalwomen who imagine their lives aretragedies. Now this woman believes hermarriage is unhappy——"

"Indeed, it is!" Aunt Bell broke in—thistime effectually, for she proceeded torelate of one Morris Upton Eversley acatalogue of inelegancies that, ifauthoritative, left him, considered as ahusband, undesirable, not to say

impracticable. His demerits, indeed,served to bring the meal to a blithe andchatty close.

Aunt Bell's practice each day afterluncheon was, in her own terminology, to"go into the silence and concentrate uponthe thought of the All-Good." She wasrecalled from the psychic state on thisafternoon, though happily not before agood half-hour, by Nancy's knock at herdoor.

She came in, cheerful, a small sheaf ofpapers in her hand. Aunt Bell, findingherself restored and amiable, sat up tolisten.

Nancy threw herself on the couch, with theair of a woman about to chatconfidentially from the softness of many

gay pillows, dropping into the attitude oftranquil relaxation that may yet bristlewith eager mental quills.

"The drollest thing, Aunt Bell! Thismorning instead of hearing Allan, I wentup to that trunk-room and rummagedthrough the chest that has all those oldpapers and things of GrandfatherDelcher's. And would you believe it? Foran hour or more there, I was reading bitsof his old sermons."

"But he was a Presbyterian!" In her toneand inflection Aunt Bell ably conveyed anexposition of the old gentleman'simpossibility—lucidly allotting him tospiritual fellowship with the head-huntersof Borneo.

"I know it, but, Aunt Bell, those old

sermons really did me good; all full of firethey were, too, but you felt a man back ofthem—a good man, a real man. You likedhim, and it didn't matter that histerminology was at times a little eccentric.Grandfather's theology fitted the last daysof his life about as crinoline and hoop-skirts would fit over there on the avenueto-day— but he always made me feelreligious. It seemed sweet and good to bea Christian when he talked. With all hisantiquated beliefs he never made me doubtas—as I doubt to-day. But it was anotherthing I wanted to show you—something Ifound—some old compositions ofBernal's that his grandfather must havekept. Here's one about birds—'jingle-birds, squeak-birds and clatter-birds.' No?—you wouldn't care for that?— well—

listen to this."

She read the youthful Bernal's effort torehabilitate the much-blemished reputationof Judas—a paper that had been curiouslypreserved by the old man.

"Poor Judas, indeed!" The novelty was notlost upon Aunt Bell, expert that she was inall obliquities from accepted tradition.

"The funny boy! Very ingenious, I'm sure. Idare say no one ever before said a goodword for Judas since the day of his death,and this lad would canonise him out ofhand. Think of it—St. Judas!"

Nancy lay back among the cushions,talking idly, inconsequently.

"You see, there was at least one mancreated, Aunt Bell, who could by no

chance be saved—one man who had tobetray the Son of Man—one man to beforever left out of the Christian scheme ofsalvation, even if every other in the worldwere saved. There had to be one man todisbelieve, to betray and to lie in hell forit, or the whole plan would have beenfrustrated. There was a theme for Dante,Aunt Bell—not the one soul in hell, but theother souls in heaven slowly awakening tothe suffering of that one soul—to theknowledge that he was suffering in orderthat they might be saved. Do you think theywould find heaven to be real heaven ifthey knew he was burning? And don't youthink a poet could make some interestingtalk between this solitary soul predestinedto hell, and the God who planned thescheme?"

Aunt Bell looked bored and uttered aswift, low phrase that might have been"Fiddlesticks!"

"My dear, no one believes in hellnowadays."

"Does any one believe in anything?"

"Belief in the essentials of Christianitywas never more apparent."

It was a treasured phrase from themorning's sermon.

"What are the essentials?"

"Belief that God so loved the world thathe gave his only begotten Son—you knowas well as I, child—belief in the atoningblood of the Christ."

"Wouldn't it be awful, Aunt Bell, if you

didn't believe in it, and had to be in hellbecause the serpent persuaded Eve andEve persuaded Adam to eat the apple—that's the essential foundation ofChristianity, isn't it?"

"Why, certainly—you must believe inoriginal sin——"

"I see—here's a note in Bernal's hand, onone of these old papers—evidentlywritten much later than the other: 'The oldgentleman says Christmas is losing itsdeeper significance. What is it? That theBabe of Bethlehem was begotten by hisFather to be a sacrifice to its Father—thatits blood might atone for the sin of his firstpair—and so save from eternal tormentthe offspring of that pair. God will nolonger be appeased by the blood of lambs;

nothing but the blood of his son will nowatone for the sin of his own creatures. Itseems to me the sooner Christmas losesthis deeper significance the better. Poorold loving human nature gives it a muchmore beautiful significance.'"

"My dear," began Aunt Bell, "before Ibroadened into what I have called thehigher unbelief, I should have consideredthat that young man had a positive geniusfor blasphemy; now that I have again comeinto the shadow of the cross, it seems tome that he merely lacks imagination."

"Poor Bernal! Yet he made me believe,though he seemed to believe in nothinghimself. He makes me believe now. Hecalls to me, Aunt Bell—or is it myselfcalling to him that I hear?

"And blasphemy—even the word isridiculous, Aunt Bell. I was at the day-nursery yesterday when all those babieswere brought in to their dinner. They arestrictly forbidden to coo or to make anynoise, and they really behaved finely fortwo-and three-year-olds —though I didsee one outlaw reach over before thesignal was given and lovingly pat the bigfat cookie beside its plate—thinking itsinsubordination would be overlooked—but, Aunt Bell, do you suppose one ofthose fifty-two babies could blasphemeyou?"

"Don't be silly!"

"But can you imagine one of them capableof any disrespect to you that would merit—say, burning or something severe like

that?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, don't you really believe that God isfarther beyond you or me or the foolishboy that wrote this, than we are beyondthose babies—with a greater, bigger pointof view, a fuller love? Imagine the Godthat made everything—the worlds andbirds and flowers and butterflies andbabies and mountains—imagine himfeeling insulted because one of hiswretched little John Smiths or BernalLinfords babbles little human words abouthim, or even worries his poor little humanheart with doubts of His existence!"

"My child, yours is but a finite mind,unable to limit or define the Infinite. Whatis it, anyway—is it Christian Science

taking hold of you, or that chap whopreaches that they have the Messiah re-incarnated and now living in Syria—Babbists, aren't they—or is it theosophy—or are you simply dissatisfied withAllan?" A sudden shrewd glance fromAunt Bell's baby-blue eyes went with thislast.

Nancy laughed, then grew serious. "I thinkthe last is it, Aunt Bell. A woman seems todoubt God and everything else after shebegins to doubt the husband she has loved.Really, I find myself questioningeverything —every moral standard."

"Nance, you are an ungrateful woman tospeak like that of Allan!"

"I never should have done it, dear, if youhadn't made me believe you knew. I

should have thought it out all by myself,and then acted, if I found I could with anyconscience."

"Eh? Mercy! You couldn't. The idea! Andthere's Allan, now. Come!"

The Doctor was on the threshold. "So hereyou are! Well, I've just sent Mrs. Eversleyaway in tears."

He dropped into an arm-chair with a littlehalf-humorous moan of fatigue.

"It's a relief, sometimes, to know you canrelax and let your whole weight absolutelydown on to the broad earth!" he declared.

"Mrs. Eversley?" suggested Aunt Bell.

"Well, the short of it is, she told me herwoes and begged me to give my sanction

to her securing a divorce!"

Nancy sat up from her pillows. "Oh—andyou did?"

"Nancy!" It was low, but clear, quick-spoken, stern, and hurt. "You forgetyourself. At least you forget my view andthe view of my Church. Even were I out ofthe Church, I should still regard marriageas a sacrament—indissoluble except bydeath. The very words—'Whom God hathjoined'"—he became almost oratorical inhis warmth—"Surely you would notexpect me to use my influence in thisparish to undermine the sanctity of thehome—to attack our emblem of Christ'sunion with His Church!"

With reproach in his eyes—a reproachthat in some way seemed to be bland and

mellow, yet with a hurt droop to hishandsome head, he went from the room.Nancy looked after him, longingly,wonderingly.

"The maddening thing is, Aunt Bell, thatsometimes he actually has the power tomake me believe in him. But, oh, doesn'tChrist's union with his Church have someghastly symbols!"

CHAPTER IX

Sinful Perverseness of theNatural Woman

Two months later a certain tension in therectory of St. Antipas was temporarilyrelieved. Like the spring of a watchwound too tightly, it snapped one day atNancy's declaration that she would go toEdom for a time—would go, moreover,without a reason—without so much as awoman's easy "because." Thiscircumstance, while it froze in the budevery available objection to her course,quelled none of the displeasure that was

felt at her woman's perversity.

Her decision was announced one morningafter a sleepless night, and after she hadbehaved unaccountably for three days.

"You are not pleasing Allan," was AuntBell's masterly way of putting thesituation. Nancy laughed from out of thepuzzling reserve into which she had latelysettled.

"So he tells me, Aunt Bell. He utters itwith the air of telling me somethingnecessarily to my discredit— yet I wonderwhose fault it really is."

"Well, of all things!" Aunt Bell made noeffort to conceal her amazement.

"It isn't necessarily mine, you know."Before the mirror she brought the veil

nicely about the edge of her hat, with thestrained and solemn absorption of awoman in this shriving of her reflection sothat it may go out in peace.

"My failure to please Allan, you know,may as easily be due to his defects as tomine. I said so, but he only answered,'Really, you're not pleasing me.' And, ashe often says of his own predicaments—'What could I do?' But I'm glad hepersists in it."

"Why, if you resent it so?"

"Because, Aunt Bell, I must be quite—quite certain that Allan is funny. Itwould be dreadful to make a mistake. Ifonly I could be certain—positive—convinced— sure—that Allan is thefunniest thing in all the world——"

"It never occurred to me that Allan isfunny." Aunt Bell paused for an instant'sretrospect. "Now, he doesn't joke much."

"One doesn't have to joke to be a joke,Aunt Bell."

"But what if he were funny? Why is that soimportant?"

"Oh, it's important because of the otherthing that you know you know when youknow that."

"Mercy! Child, you should have a cup ofcocoa or something before you start off—really——"

The last long hatpin seemingly pierced thehead of Nancy and she turned from theglass to fumble on her gloves.

"Aunt Bell, if Allan tells me once more inthat hurt, gentle tone that I don't pleasehim, I believe I shall be the freest of freewomen—ready to live."

She paused to look vacantly into the wall."Sometimes, you know, I seem to wake upwith a clear mind— but the day clouds it.We shouldn't believe so many falsities,Aunt Bell, if they didn't pinch our brainsinto it at a tender age. I should know Allanthrough and through at a glance to-day, if Imet him for the first time; but he kneadedmy poor girl's brain this way and that, tillI'd have been done for, Aunt Bell, if someone else hadn't kneaded and patted it intoother ways, so that little memories comeback and stay with me— little bits ofsweetness and genuineness—of realness,

Aunt Bell."

"Nance, you are morbid—and I thinkyou're wrong to go up there to be alonewith your sick fancies—why are yougoing, Nance?"

"Aunt Bell, can I really trust you not tobetray me? Will you promise to keep thesecret if I actually tell you?"

Aunt Bell looked at once important andtrustworthy, yet of an incorruptiblepropriety.

"I'm sure, my dear, you would not ask meto keep secret anything that your husbandwould be——"

"Dear, no! You can keep mum with aspotless conscience."

"Of course; I was sure of that!"

"What a fraud you are, Aunt Bell—youweren't sure at all—but I shall disappointyou. Now my reason——" She cameclose and spoke low——"My reason forgoing to Edom, whatever it is, is so utterlysilly that I haven't even dared to tellmyself—so, you see—my real reason forgoing is simply to find out what my reasonreally is. I'm dying to know. There! Nownever say I didn't trust you."

In the first shock of this fall from heranticipations Aunt Bell neglected toremember that All is Good. Yet she waspresently far enough mollified toaccompany her niece to the station.

Returning from thence after she hadwatched Nancy through the gate to the

3:05 Edom local, Aunt Bell lingered at theopen study door of the rector of St.Antipas. He looked up cordially.

"You know, Allan, it may do the childgood, after all, to be alone a little while."

"Nancy—has—not—pleased—me!" Thewords were clean-cut, with anilluminating pause after each, so that AuntBell might by no chance mistake theirimport, yet the tone was low and notwithout a quality of winning sweetness—the tone of the injured good.

"I've seen that, Allan. Nance undoubtedlyhas a vein of selfishness. Instead ofstriving to please her husband, she—well,she has practically intimated to me that awife has the right to please herself. Ofcourse, she didn't say it brutally in just

those words, but——"

"It's the modern spirit, Aunt Bell—thespirit of unbelief. It has made what wecall the 'new woman' —that noxiousflower on the stalk of scientificmaterialism."

He turned and wrote this phrase rapidlyon a pad at his elbow, while Aunt Bellwaited expectantly for more.

"There's a sermon that writes itself, AuntBell. ' Woman's deterioration underModern Infidelity to God.' As truly as youlive, this thing called the 'new woman' hasgrown up side by side with the thingcalled the higher criticism. And it'snatural. Take away God's word asrevealed in the Scriptures and you makewoman a law unto herself. Man's state is

then wretched enough, but contemplatewoman's! Having put aside Christ'sauthority, she naturally puts aside man's,hence we have the creature who mannishlydesires the suffrage and attends clubmeetings and argues, and has views—views, Aunt Bell, on the questions of theday—the woman who, as you have justsuccinctly said of your niece, 'believesshe has a right to please herself!' There isthe keynote of the modern divorce evil,Aunt Bell— she has a right to pleaseherself. Believing no longer in God, sheno longer feels bound by Hiscommandment: 'Wives be subject to yourhusbands!' Why, Aunt Bell, if you canimagine Christianity shorn of all its otherglories, it would still be the greatestreligion the world has ever known,

because it holds woman sternly in hersphere and maintains the sanctity of thehome. Now, I know nothing of the realstate of Nancy's faith, but the fact that shebelieves she has a right to please herselfis enough to convince me. I would stakemy right arm this moment, upon just thisevidence, that Nancy has become anunbeliever. When I let her know as plainlyas English words can express it that she isnot pleasing me, she looks either sullen orflippant—thus showing distinctly a loss ofreligious faith."

"You ought to make a stunning sermon ofthat, Allan. I think society needs it."

"It does, Aunt Bell, it does! And we aregoing from bad to worse. I foresee thetime in this very age of ours when no

woman will continue to be wife to a manexcept by the dictates of her own lawlessand corrupt nature—when a wife willmake so-called love her only rule—whenshe will brazenly disregard the law ofGod and the word of his only begottencrucified Son, unless she can continue tofeel what she calls 'love and respect' forthe husband who chose her. We prizeliberty, Aunt Bell, but liberty with womanhas become license since she lost faith inthe word of God that holds her subject toman. We should be thankful that themother Church still stands firm on thatrock—the rock of woman's subjection toman. Our own Church has quibbled, AuntBell, but look at the fine consistency of theChurch of Rome. As truly as you live, theCatholic Church will one day hold the

only women who subject themselves totheir husbands in all things because ofGod's command—regardless of theiranarchistic desire to 'please themselves.'There is the only Christian Church left thatknows woman is a creature to be ruledwith an iron hand—and has the courage tosend them to hell for 'pleasingthemselves.'"

He glowed in meditation a moment, then,in a burst of confidence, continued:

"This is not to be repeated, Aunt Bell, butI have more than once questioned if Ishould always allow the Anglo-CatholicChurch to modify my true Catholicism. Ihave talked freely with Father Riley of St.Clements at our weekly ministers'meetings—there's a bright chap for you—

and really, Aunt Bell, as to mereuniversality, the Church of Rome hasabout the only claim worth considering.Mind you, this is not to be repeated, but Iam often so much troubled that I have tofall back on my simple childish faith in thelove of the Father earned of him for me bythe Son's death on the cross. But what if Ierr in making my faith too simple? Evennow I am almost persuaded that a priestordained into the Episcopal Church cannotconsecrate the elements of the Eucharist ina sacrificial sense. Doubts like these aretragedies to an honest man, Aunt Bell—they try his soul—they bring him each dayto the foot of that cross whereon the Sonof God suffers his agony in order toransom our souls from God's wrath withus—and there are times, Aunt Bell, when I

find myself gazing longingly, like a littletired child, at the open arms of the motherChurch—on whose loving bosom ofauthority a man may lay all his doubts andbe never again troubled in his mind."

Aunt Bell sighed cheerfully.

"After all," she said briskly, "isn'tChristianity the most fascinating of allbeliefs, if one comes into it from thehigher unbelief? Isn't it fine, Allan—doesn't the very thought excite you—thatnot only the souls of thousands now living,but thousands yet unborn, will be affectedthrough all eternity for good or bad, by theclearness with which you, here at thismoment, perceive and reason out thesespiritual values—and the honesty withwhich you act upon your conclusions.

How truly God has made us responsiblefor the souls of one another!"

The rector of St. Antipas shruggedmodestly at this bald wording of hisresponsibility; then he sighed and bent hishead as one honestly conscious of thesituation's gravity.

CHAPTER X

The Reason of a Woman WhoHad No Reason

It was not a jest—Nancy's telling AuntBell that her reason for going to Edomwas too foolish to give even to herself. Atleast such reticence to self is oftensincerely and plausibly asserted by thevery inner woman. Yet no sooner had hertrain started than her secret within a secretbegan to tell itself: at first in whispers,then low like a voice overheard throughleafy trees; then loud and louder until allthe noise of the train did no more than

confuse the words so that only she couldhear them.

When the exciting time of this listeninghad gone and she stepped from the traininto the lazy spring silence of the village,her own heart spelled the thing in quick,loud, hammering beats—a thing which,now that she faced it, was so wildlyimpossible that her cheeks burned at thefirst second of actual realisation of itsenormity; and her knees weakened in adeathly tremble, quite as if they mightbend embarrassingly in either direction.

Then in the outer spaces of her mind theregrew, to save her, a sense of her crassfatuity. She was quickly in a carriage,eager to avoid any acquaintance, glad thedriver was no village familiar who might

amiably seek to regale her with gossip.They went swiftly up the western roadthrough its greening elms to where Clytiekept the big house—her own home whileshe lived, and the home of the family whenthey chose to go there.

At last, the silent, cool house with itssecretive green shutters rose above her;the wheels made their little crisping overthe fine metal of the driveway. She hastilypaid the man and was at the side door thatopened into the sitting-room. As she puther hand to the knob she was conscious ofClytie passing the window to open thedoor.

Then they were face to face over thethreshold— Clytemnestra, of a matronlycircumference, yet with a certain prim

consciousness of herself, which despitethe gray hair and the excellent maturity ofher face, was unmistakably maidenish—Clytie of the eyes always wise to another'sneeds and beaming with that fine wisdom.

She started back from the doorway by wayof being playfully dramatic—her hands onher hips, her head to one side at anastounded angle. Yet little more than asecond did she let herself simulate thiswelcoming incredulity—this stupefactionof cordiality. There must be quick speech—especially as to Nancy's face—whichseemed strangely unfamiliar, set,suppressed, breathless, unaccountablyyoung—and there had to be the splendidannouncement of another matter.

"Why, child, is it you or your ghost?"

Nancy could only nod her head.

"My suz! what ails the child?"

Here the other managed a shake of thehead and a made smile.

"And of all things!—you'll never, never,never guess!——"

"There—there!—yes, yes—yes! I know—know all about it—knew it—knew it lastnight——"

She had put out a hand toward Clytie andnow reached the other from her side,easing herself to the doorpost againstwhich she leaned and laughed, weakly,vacantly.

"Some one told you—on the way up?"

"Yes—I knew it, I tell you—that's what

makes it so funny and foolish—why Icame, you know——" She had nowgained a little in coherence, and with itcame a final doubt. She steadied herself inthe doorway to ask—"When did Bernalcome?"

And Clytie, somewhat relieved, becamevoluble.

"Night before last on the six-fifteen, andme getting home late from the Epworthmeeting—fire out—not a stick of kindling-wood in—only two cakes in the buttery,neither of them a layer—not a frying-sizechicken on the place—thank goodness hedidn't have the appetite he used to—though in another way it's just downrightheartbreaking to see a person you care fornot be a ready eater—but I had some of

the plum jell he used to like, and the goodhalf of an apple-John which I at once hetup—and I sent Mehitty Lykins down forsome chops——"

"Where is he?"

There had seemed to be a choking in thequestion. Clytie regarded her curiously.

"He was lying down up in the study awhile ago— kicking one foot up in the airagainst the wall, with his head nearly offthe sofy onto the floor, just like he used to—there—that's his step——"

"I can't see him now! Here—let me go intoyour room till I freshen and rest a bit—quick——"

Once more the indecisive knees seemedabout to bend either way under their

burden. With an effort of will she drewthe amazed Clytie toward the open door ofthe latter's bedroom, then closed itquickly, and stood facing her in the duskof the curtained room.

"Clytie—I'm weak—it's so strange—actually weak— I shake so—Oh, Clytie—I've got to cry!"

There was a mutual opening of arms and ahead on Clytie's shoulder, wet eyes closein a corner that had once been the goodwoman's neck—and stifling sobs thatseemed one moment to contract her bodyrigidly from head to foot—the next toleave it limp and falling. From the nursingshoulder she was helped to the bed,though she could not yet relax her armsfrom that desperate grip of Clytie's neck.

Long she held her so, even after the fit ofweeping passed, clasping her with arms inwhich there was almost a savage intensity— arms that locked themselves morefiercely at any little stirring of theprisoned one.

At last, when she had lain quiet a longtime, the grasp was suddenly loosened andClytie was privileged to ease her achingneck and cramped shoulders. Then, evenas she looked down, she heard fromNancy the measured soft breathing ofsleep. She drew a curtain to shut out onelast ray of light, and went softly from theroom.

Two hours later, as Clytemnestra attainedultimate perfection in the arrangement offour glass dishes of preserves and three

varieties of cake upon her table— for shestill kept to the sinfully complex fare ofthe good old simple days—Nancy cameout. Clytie stood erect to peer anxiouslyover the lamp at her.

"I'm all right—you were a dear to let mesleep. See how fresh I am."

"You do look pearter, child—but you lookdifferent from when you came. My suz!you looked so excited and kind of youngwhen I opened that door, it give me a startfor a minute—I thought I'd woke out of adream and you was a Miss in short skirtsagain. But now— let me see you closer."She came around the table, then continued:"Well, you look fresh and sweet and somerested, and you look old and reasonableagain— I mean as old as you had ought to

look. I never did know you to act that waybefore, child. My neck ain't got the crickout of it yet."

"Poor old Clytie—but you see yesterdayall day I felt queer—very queer, andwrought up, and last night I couldn't rest,and I lay awake and excited all night—and something seemed to give way when Isaw you in the door. Of course it wasnervousness, and I shall be all right now——"

She looked up and saw Bernal staring ather— standing in the doorway of the bigroom, his face shading into the dusk backof him. She went to him with both handsout and he kissed her.

"Is it Nance?"

"I don't know—but it's really Bernal."

"Clytie says you knew I had come."

"Clytie must have misunderstood. No oneeven intimated such a thing. I came up to-day—I had to come—because—if I hadknown you were here, wouldn't I havebrought Allan?"

"Of course I was going to let you know,and come down in a few days—there wassome business to do here. Dear old Allan!I'm aching to get a stranglehold on him!"

"Yes—he'll be so glad—there's so muchto say!"

"I didn't know whom I should find here."

"We've had Clytie look after both houses—sometimes we've rented mine—and

almost every summer we've come here."

"You know I didn't dream I was rich untilI got here. The lawyer says they'veadvertised, but I've been away fromeverything most of the time—not lookingout for advertisements. I can't understandthe old gentleman, when I was such areprobate and Allan was always such athoroughly decent chap."

"Oh, hardly a reprobate!"

"Worse, Nance—an ass—think of mytalking to that dear old soul as I did—taking twenty minutes off to win him fromhis lifelong faith. I shudder when Iremember it. And yet I honestly thought hemight be made to see things my way."

Their speech had been quick, and her eyes

were fastened upon his with a look fromthe old days striving in her to bring backthat big moment of their last parting —thatsingular moment when they blindly gropedfor each other but had perforce to becontent with one poor, tremblinghandclasp! Had that trembling been aweakness or a strength? For all time since—and increasingly during the later years—secret memories of it had wonderfullyquickened a life that would otherwisehave tended to fall dull, torpid, stubborn.It was not that their hands had met, but thatthey had trembled —those two strangehands that had both repelled and coercedeach other—faltering at last into that longmoment of triumphant certainty.

Under the first light words with Bernal

this memory had welled up anew in herwith a mighty power before which shewas as a leaf in the wind. Then, all atonce, she saw that they had become dazedand speechless above this present clasp—the yielding, yet opposing, of those all-knowing, never-forgetting hands. Therefollowed one swift mutual look ofbewilderment. Then their hands fell apartand with little awkward laughs they turnedto Clytie.

They were presently at table, Clytie in atrance of ecstatic watchfulness foremptied plates, broken only by reachingsand urgings of this or that esteemedfleshpot.

Under the ready talk that flowed, Nancyhad opportunity to observe the returned

one. And now his strangeness vaguely hurther. The voice and the face were not thosethat had come to secret life in her heartduring the years of his absence. Here wasnot the laughing boy she had known, withhis volatile, Lucifer-like charm of light-hearted recklessness in the face of destiny.Instead, a thinned, shy face rose beforeher, a face full of awkwardness anddreaming, troubled and absent; a face thatone moment appealed by its defenselessforgetfulness, and the next, coerced by alook eloquent of tested strength.

As she watched him, there were two ofher: one, the girl dreaming forward out ofthe past, receptive of one knew not whatsecrets from inner places; the other, thevivid, alert woman—listening, waiting,

judging. She it was whose laugh cameoften to make of her face the perfect wholeout of many little imperfections.

Later, when they sat in the early summernight, under a moon blurred to a phantomby the mist, when the changed lines of hisface were no longer relentless and theytwo became little more than voices andremembered presences to each other, shebegan to find him indeed unchanged. Evenhis voice had in an hour curiously lost thathurting strangeness. As she listened shebecame absent, almost drowsy withmemories of that far night when his voicewas quite the same and their hands hadtrembled together—with such presciencethat through all the years her hand was tofeel the groping of his.

Yet awkward enough was that first half-hour of their sitting side by side in thenight, on the wide piazza of his old home.Before them the lawn stretched unbrokento the other big house, where Nancy hadwondered her way to womanhood. Emptynow it was, darkened as those years of herdreaming girlhood must be to the present.Should she enter it, she knew the housewould murmur with echoes of other days;there would be the wraith of the girl sheonce was flitting as of old through itspeopled rooms.

And out there actually before her was thestretch of lawn where she had playedgames of tragic pretense with theimperious, dreaming boy. Vividly therecame back that late afternoon when the

monster of Bernal's devising hadfrightened them for the last time—when ina sudden flash of insight they had laughedthe thing away forever and faced eachother with a certain half-joyous, half-foolish maturity of understanding. One daylong after this she had humorouslybewailed to Bernal the loss of their child'sfaith in the Gratcher. He had replied that,as an institution, the Gratcher wasimperishable—that it was brute humanity'sinstinctive negation to the incredibleperfections of life; that while the child'sGratcher was not the man's, the latter wasyet of the same breed, however it might berefined by the subtleties of maturity: thatthe man, like the child, must fashion somemonster of horror to deter him when hehears God's call to live.

She had not been able to understand, nordid she now. She was looking out to thetwo trees where once her hammock hadswung—to the rustic chair, now fallingapart from age, from which Bernal hadfaced her that last evening. Then with astart she was back in the present. Nancy ofthe old days must be shut fat in the oldhouse. There she might wander andwonder endlessly among the echoes andthe half-seen faces, but never could shecome forth; over the threshold there couldpass only the wife of Allan Linford.

Quick upon this realisation came a sharpfear of the man beside her—a fear born ofhis hand's hold upon hers when they hadmet. She shrank under the memory of it,with a sudden instinct of the hunted. Then

from her new covert of reserve she daredto peer cautiously at him, seeking to knowhow great was her peril —to learn whatmeasure of defense would best insure hersafety—recognising fearfully the traitor inher own heart.

Their first idle talk had died, and shenoted with new alarm that they had beensilent for many minutes. This could notsafely be—this insidious, barrier-destroying silence. She seemed to hear hisheart beating high from his own sense ofperil. But would he help her? Would henot rather side with that wretched traitorwithin her, crying out for the old days—would he not still be the proud fool whowould suffer no man's law but his own?She shivered at the thought of his nearness

—of his momentous silence—of histreacherous ally.

She stirred in her chair to look in whereClytie bustled between kitchen and dining-room. Her movement aroused him fromhis own abstraction. For a breathlessstretch of time she was frozen to inertnessby sheer terror. Would that old lawlessspirit utter new blasphemies, givingfearful point to them now? Would the oldeager hand come again upon hers with aboy's pleading and a man's power? Andwhat of her own secret guilt? She hadcherished the memory of him and acrossspace had responded to him through thatimperious need of her heart. Swiftly inthis significant moment she for the firsttime saw herself with critical eyes—saw

that in her fancied security she hadunwittingly enthroned the hidden traitor.More and more poignant grew herapprehension as she felt his eyes upon herand divined that he was about to speak.With a little steadying of the lips, witheyes that widened at him in the dim light,she waited for the sound of his voice—waited as one waits for something"terrible and dear"—the whirlwind thatmight destroy utterly, or pass—to leaveher forever exulting in a new sense ofpower against elemental forces.

"Would you mind if I smoked, Nance?"

She stared stupidly. So tense had been herstrain that the words were meremeaningless blows that left her quivering.He thought she had not heard.

"Would you mind my pipe—and this verymild mixture?"

She blessed him for the respite.

"Smoke, of course!" she managed to say.

She watched him closely, still alert, as hestuffed the tobacco into his pipe-bowlfrom a rubber pouch. Then he struck thematch and in that moment she sufferedanother shock. The little flame danced outof the darkness, and wavering, upwardshadows played over a face of utterquietness. The relaxed shoulders droopedsideways in the chair, the body placidlysprawled, one crossed leg gently waving.The shaded eye surveyed some large andtranquil thought—and in that eye the soulsat remote, aloof from her as any star.

She sank back in her chair with a long,stealthy breath of relief—a relief as coldas stone. She had not felt before that therewas a chill in the wide sweetness of thenight. Now it wrapped her round andslowly, with a soft brutality, penetrated toher heart.

The silence grew too long. With ashrugging effort she surmounted herselfand looked again toward the alien figurelooming unconcerned in the gloom. Awarm, super-personal sense offriendliness came upon her. Her intellectawoke to inquiries. She began to questionhim of his days away, and soon he wastalking freely enough, between pulls of hispipe.

"You know, Nance, I was a prodigal—

only when I awoke I had no father to go to.Poor grandad! What a brutal cub I was!That has always stuck in my mind. I wastelling you about that cold wet night inDenver. I had found a lodging in thepolice station. There were others asforlorn—and Nance—did you ever realisethe buoyancy of the human mind? It'ssublime. We rejected ones sat there,warming ourselves, chatting, and prettysoon one man found there were thirteen ofus. You would have thought that none ofthem could fear bad luck—worse luck—none of them could have been moredismally situated. But, do you know? mostof those fellows became nervous—asapprehensive of bad luck as if they hadbeen pampered princes in a time ofrevolution. I was one of the two that

volunteered to restore confidence bybringing in another man.

"We found an undersized, insignificant-looking chap toddling aimlessly along thestreet a few blocks away from the station.We grappled with him and hustled himback to the crowd. He slept with us on thefloor, and no one paid any further attentionto him, except to remark that he talked tohimself a good bit. He and I awokeearliest next morning. I asked him if hewas hungry and he said he was. So Ibought two fair breakfasts with the moneyI'd saved for one good one, and we startedout of town. This chap said he was goingthat way, and I had made up my mind tofind a certain friend of mine—a chapnamed Hoover. The second day out I

discovered that this queer man was theone who'd been turning Denver upsidedown for ten days, healing the halt and theblind. He was running away because heliked a quieter life."

He stopped, laughing softly, as if inremembrance— until she prompted him.

"Yes, he said, 'Father' had commandedhim to go into the wilderness to fast. Hewas always talking familiarly with'Father,' as we walked. So I stayed by himlonger than I meant to—he seemed sohelpless— and I happened at that time tobe looking for the true God."

"Did you find him, Bernal?"

"Oh, yes!"

"In this strange man?"

"In myself. It's the same old secret, Nance,that people have been discovering forages—but it is a secret only until after youlearn it for yourself. The only truerevelation from God is here in man—inthe human heart. I had to be years alone tofind it out, Nance— I'd had so much ofthat Bible mythology stuffed into me—butI mustn't bore you with it."

"Oh, but I must know, Bernal—you don'tdream how greatly I need at this momentto believe something— more than youever did!"

"It's simple, Nance. It's the only revelationin which the God of yesterday giveswilling place to the better God of to-day—only here does the God of to-day say,'Thou shalt have no other God before me

but the God of to-morrow who will bemore Godlike than I. Only in this way canwe keep our God growing always a littlebeyond us—so that to-morrow we shallnot find ourselves surpassing him as thefirst man you would meet out there on thestreet surpasses the Christian God even inthe common virtues. That was the fourthdimension of religion that I wanted, Nance—faith in a God that a fearless man couldworship."

He lighted his pipe again, and as the matchblazed up she saw the absent look still inhis eyes. By it she realised how far awayfrom her he was—realised it with a littlesharp sense of desolation. He smoked awhile before speaking.

"Out there in the mountains, Nance, I

thought about these things a long time—theyears went before I knew it. At first Istayed with this healing chap, only after awhile he started back to teach again andthey found him dead. He believed he had amission to save the world, and that hewould live until he accomplished it. Butthere he was, dead for want of a littlefood. Then I stayed a long time alone—until I began to feel that I, too, hadsomething for the world. It began to burnin my bones. I thought of him, dead and theworld not caring that he hadn't saved it—not even knowing it was lost. But I keptthinking—a man can be so much more thanhimself when he is alone—and it seemedto me that I saw at least two things theworld needed to know —two things thatwould teach men to stop being cowards

and leaners."

Her sympathy was quick and ardent.

"Oh, Bernal," she said warmly, "you mademe believe when you believed nothing—and now, when I need it above all othertimes, you make me believe again! Andyou've come back with a message! Howglorious!"

He smiled musingly.

"I started with one, Nance—one that hadgrown in me all those years till it filledmy life and made me put away everything.I didn't accept it at first. It found merebellious—wanting to live on the earth.Then there came a need to justify myself—to show that I was not the mere viciousunbeliever poor grandad thought me. And

so I fought to give myself up—and I won. Ifound the peace of the lone places."

His voice grew dreamy—ceased, as if thatpeace were indeed too utter for words.Then with an effort he resumed:

"But after a while the world began torumble in my ears. A man can't cut himselfoff from it forever. God has well seen tothat! As the message cleared in my mind,there grew a need to give it out. Thisseemed easy off there. The little puzzlesthat the world makes so much of solvedthemselves for me. I saw them to bepuzzles of the world's own creating—allartificial—all built up—fashionedclumsily enough from man's brute fear ofthe half-God, half-devil he has alwaysmade in his own image.

"But now that I'm here, Nance, I findmyself already a little bewildered. Thesolution of the puzzles is as simple asever, but the puzzles themselves are morecomplex as I come closer to them—socomplex that my simple answer will seemonly a vague absurdity."

He paused and she felt his eyes upon her—felt that he had turned from hisabstractions to look at her morepersonally.

"Even since meeting you, Nance," he wenton with an odd, inward note in his voice,"I've been wondering if Hoover could bysome chance have been right. When I left,Hoover said I was a fool—a certaincommon variety of fool."

"Oh, I'm sure you're not—at least, not the

common kind. I dare say that a man mustbe a certain kind of fool to think he can putthe world forward by leaps and bounds. Ithink he must be a fool to assume that theworld wants truth when it wants only to beassured that it has already found the truthfor itself. The man who tells it what italready believes is never called a fool—and perhaps he isn't. Indeed, I've come tothink he is less than a fool—that he's amere polite echo. But oh, Bernal, hold toyour truth! Be the simple fool and worrythe wise in the cages they have builtaround themselves."

She was leaning eagerly forward,forgetful of all save that her starved needwas feasting royally.

"Don't give up; don't parrot the commoner

fool's conceits back to him for the sake ofhis solemn approval. Let those of his kindgive him what he wants, while you meetthose who must have more. I'm one ofthem, Bernal. At this moment I honestlydon't know whether I'm a bad woman or agood one. And I'm frightened— I'm sodefenseless! Some little soullesscircumstance may make me decisivelygood or bad—and I don't want to be bad!But give me what I want—I must havethat, regardless of what it makes me."

He was silent for a time, then at lastspoke:

"I used to think you were a rebel, Nance.Your eyes betrayed it, and the corners ofyour mouth went up the least little bit, as ifthey'd go further up before they went down

—as if you'd laugh away many solemnrespectabilities. But that's not bad. Thereare more things to laugh at than aredreamed of. That's Hoover's entire creed,by the way."

She remembered the name from that oldtale of Caleb Webster's.

"Is—is this friend of yours—Mr. Hoover—in good health?"

"Fine—weighs a hundred and eighty. Heand I have a ranch on the Wimmenuche—only Hoover's been doing most of thework while I thought about things. I seethat. Hoover says one can't do much forthe world but laugh at it. He has a theoryof his own. He maintains that God set thisplanet whirling, then turned away for amoment to start another universe or

something. He says that when the Creatorglances back at us again, to find this poor,scrubby little earth-family divided over itsclod, the strong robbing the weak in themidst of plenty for all—enslaving them tostarve and toil and fight, spending morefor war than would keep the entire familyin luxury; that when God looks closer, inhis amazement, and finds that, next togreed, the matter of worshipping Him hasmade most of the war and other deviltry—the hatred and persecution and killingamong all the little brothers—he willlaugh aloud before he reflects, and thislittle ballful of funny, passionate insectswill be blown to bits. He says if the worldcomes to an end in his lifetime, he willknow God has happened to look this way,and perhaps overheard a bishop say

something vastly important aboutApostolic succession or the validity of theAnglican Orders or Transubstantiation or'communion in two kinds' or something.He insists that a sense of humour is ouronly salvation—that only those will besaved who happen to be laughing for thesame reason that God laughs when Helooks at us—that the little Mohammedansand Christians and things will be burnedfor their blasphemy of believing God notwise and good enough to save them all,Mohammedan and Christian alike, thoughnot thinking excessively well of either;that only those laughing at the whole gorynonsense will go into everlasting life byreason of their superior faith in God."

"Of course that's plausible, and yet it's

radical. Hoover's father was a bishop, andI think Hoover is just a bit narrow fromearly training. He can't see that lots ofpeople who haven't a vestige of humourare nevertheless worth saving. I admit thatsaving them will be a thankless task. Godwon't be able to take very much pleasurein it, but in strict justice he will do it—even if Hoover does regard it as a pieceof extravagant sentimentality."

A little later she went in. She left himgazing far off into the night, filled with hismessage, dull to memory on the very scenethat evoked in her own heart so much fromthe old days. And as she went she laughedinwardly at a certain consternation thewoman of her could not wholly put down;for she had blindly hurled herself against a

wall—the wall of his message. But it wasfunny, and the message chained herinterest. She could, she thought, strengthenhis resolution to give it out—help him in athousand ways.

As she fell asleep the thought of himhovered and drifted on her heart softly, asdarkness rests on tired eyes.

CHAPTER XI

The Remorse of WonderingNancy

She awoke to the sun, glad-hearted andmade newly buoyant by one of thosesoundless black sleeping-nights that comeonly to the town-tired when they have firstfled. She ran to the glass to know if therestoration she felt might also be seen.With unbiassed calculation the black-fringed lids drew apart and one handpushed back of the temple, and held there,a tangled skein of hair that had thrown thedusk of a deep wood about her eyes. Then,

as she looked, came the little dreamingsmile that unfitted critic eyes for theiroffice; a smile that wakened to a laugh asshe looked—a little womanish chuckle ofconfident joy, as one alone speaking aloudin an overflowing moment.

An hour later she was greeting Bernalwhere the sun washed through the bigroom.

"Young life sings in me!" she said, and felthis lightening eyes upon her lips as shesmiled.

There were three days of it—days inwhich, however, she grew to fear thoseeyes, lest they fall upon her in judgment.She now saw that his eyes had changedmost. They gave the face its look ofabsence, of dreaming awkwardness. They

had the depth of a hazy sky at times, thencleared to a coldly lucid glance thatwould see nothing ever to fear, within orwithout; that would hide no falseness noryet be deceived by any—a deadly half-shut, appraising coolness that would knowfalse from true, even though they matedamicably and distractingly in one mind.

The effect of this glance which she foundupon herself from time to time was tomake Nancy suspect herself— to questionher motives and try her defenses. To heramazement she found these latter weakunder Bernal's gaze, and there grew in hera tender remorse for the injustice she haddone her husband. From little prickingsuspicions on the first day she came on thelast to conviction. It seemed that being

with Bernal had opened her eyes toAllan's worth. She had narrowly,flippantly misjudged a good man—good inall essentials. She was contrite for herunwifely lack of abnegation. She began tosee herself and Allan with Bernal's eyes:she was less than she had thought—he wasmore. Bernal had proved these things toher all unconsciously. Now her heart wasflooded with gratitude for his simple,ready, heartfelt praise of his brother—ofhis unfailing good-temper, his loyalty, hisgifts, his modesty so often distressed byoutspoken admiration of his personalgraces. She listened and applauded with aheart that renewed itself in all goodresolves of devotion. Even when Bernaltalked of himself, he made her feel that shehad been unjust to Allan.

Little by little she drew many things fromhim—the story of his journeyings and ofhis still more intricate mental wanderings.And it thrilled her to think he had comeback with a message—even though healready doubted himself. Sometimes hewould be jocular about it and again hotwith a passion to express himself.

"Nance," he said on another night, "whenyou have a real faith in God a dead man isa miracle not less than a living—and alive man dying is quite as wondrous as adead man living. Do you know, I wasstaggered one day by discovering that theearth didn't give way when I stepped onit? The primitive man knowing little ofphysics doesn't know that a child's handcould move the earth through space—but

for a certain mysterious resistance. That'sGod. I felt him all that day, at every step,pushing the little globe back under me—counteracting me—resisting me—ever sogently. Those are times when you feel youmust tell it, Nance—when the God-consciousness comes."

"Oh, Bernal, if you could—if you couldcome back to do what your grandfatherreally wanted you to do— to preachsomething worth while!"

"I doubt the need for my message, Nance. Ineed for myself a God that could no morespare a Hottentot than a Pope—but I doubtif the world does. No one would listen tome—I'm only a dreamer. Once when I wassmall they gave me a candy cane forChristmas. It was a thing I had long

worshipped in shop-windows —actuallyworshipped as the primitive manworshipped his idol. I can remember howsad I was when no one else worshippedwith me, or paid the least attention to mytreasure. I suspect I shall meet the sameindifference now. And I hope I'll have thesame philosophy. I remember I broughtmyself to eat the cane, which I suppose isthe primary intention regarding them—andperhaps the fruits of one's faith should beeaten quite as practically."

They had sent no word to Allan, agreeingit were better fun to surprise him. Whenthey took the train together on the thirdday, the wife not less than the brotherlooked forward to a joyous reunion withhim. And now that Nancy had proved in

her heart the perverse unwifeliness of herold attitude and was eager to begin thesymbolic rites of her atonement, it came toher to wonder how Bernal would havejudged her had she persisted in that firstwild impulse of rebellion. She wanted tosee from what degree of his reprobationshe had saved herself. She would becircuitous in her approach.

"You remember, Bernal, that night youwent away —how you said there was nomoral law under the sky for you but yourown?"

He smiled, and above the noise of thetrain his voice came to her as his voice ofold came above the noise of the years.

"Yes—Nance—that was right. No morallaw but mine. I carried out my threat to

make them all find their authority in me."

"Then you still believe yours is the onlyauthority?"

"Yes; it sounds licentious and horrible,doesn't it; but there are two queer thingsabout it—the first is that man quitenaturally wishes to be decent, and thesecond is that, when he does come to relywholly upon the authority within himself,he finds it a stricter disciplinarian thanever the decalogue was. One needs onlyordinary good taste to keep the tencommandments— the moral ones. A manmay observe them all and still be morallyrotten! But it's no joke to live by one'sown law, and yet that's all anybody has tokeep him right, if we only knew it, Nance—barring a few human statutes against

things like murder and keeping one'sbarber-shop open on the Sabbath—theruder offenses which no gentleman everwishes to commit.

"And must poor woman be ruled by herown God, too?"

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not so long ago that the fathersof the Church were debating in councilwhether she had a soul or not, chargingher with bringing sin, sickness and deathinto the world."

"Exactly. St. John Damascene called her 'adaughter of falsehood and a sentinel ofhell'; St. Jerome came in with 'Woman isthe gate of the devil, the road to iniquity,the sting of the scorpion'; St. Gregory, I

believe, considered her to have nocomprehension of goodness; pious oldTertullian complimented her withcorrupting those whom Satan dare notattack; and then there was St. Chrysostom—really he was much more charitablethan his fellow Saints—it always seemedto me he was not only more humane butmore human— more interested, you mightsay. You know he said, 'Woman is anecessary evil, a domestic peril, a deadlyfascination, a painted ill.' It alwaysseemed to me St. Chrysostom had a past.But really, I think they all went too far. Idon't know woman very well, but Isuspect she has to find her moral authoritywhere man finds his—within herself."

"You know what made me ask—a little

woman in town came to see Allan not longago to know if she mightn't leave herhusband—she had what seemed to hersufficient reason."

"I imagine Allan said 'no.'"

"He did. Would you have advised herdifferently?"

"Bless you, no. I'd advise her to obey herpriest. The fact that she consulted himshows that she has no law of her own. St.Paul said this wise and deep thing: 'Iknow and am persuaded by the Lord Jesusthat there is nothing unclean of itself; butto him that esteemeth anything unclean, tohim it is unclean!'"

"Then it lay in her own view of it. If shehad felt free to go, she would have done

right to go."

"Naturally."

"Yet Allan talked to her about the sanctityof the home."

"I doubt if the sanctity of the home ismaintained by keeping unwilling matestogether, Nance. I can imagine nothing lesssanctified than a home of that sort—peopled by a couple held together againstthe desire of either or both. The willingmates need no compulsion, and they're theones, it seems to me, that have given thehome its reputation for sanctity. I neverthought much about divorce, but I can seethat much at once. Of course, Allan takesthe Church's attitude, which survives froma time when a woman was bought andowned; when the God of Moses classed

her with the ox and the ass as a thing onemust not covet."

"You really think if a woman has made afailure of her marriage she has a right tobreak it."

"That seems sound as a general law,Nance—better for her to make a hundredfailures, for that matter, than stay meeklyin the first because of any superstition.But, mind you, if she suspects that theChurch may, after all, have succeeded intying up the infinite with red-tape andsealing-wax—believes that God is alarge, dark notary-public who hasrecorded her marriage in a book—shewill do better to stay. Doubtless theconceit of it will console her—that theGod who looks after the planets has an

eye on her, to see that she makes but oneguess about so uncertain a thing as a man."

"Then you would advise—"

"No, I wouldn't. The woman who has tobe advised should never take advice. Idare say divorce is quite as hazardous asmarriage, though possibly most peopledivorce with a somewhat riper discretionthan they marry with. But the point is thatneither marriage nor divorce can beconsidered a royal road to happiness, anda woman ought to get her impetus in eithercase from her own inner consciousness. Ishould call divorcing by advice quite assilly as marrying by it."

"But it comes at last to her own law in herown heart?"

"When she has awakened to it—when shehonestly feels it. God's law for woman isthe same as for man— and he has but twolaws for both that are universal andunchanging: The first is, they are bound atall times to desire happiness; the secondis, that they can be happy only by beingwise—which is what we sometimes meanwhen we say 'good,' but of course no oneknows what wisdom is for all, nor whatgoodness is for all, because we are notmechanical dolls of the same pattern.That's why I reverence God—the schemeis so ingenious—so productive of varietyin goodness and wisdom. Probably an evilmarriage is as hard to be quit of as anyvice. People persist long after the sanctityhas gone—because they lack moralcourage. Hoover was quite that way with

cigarettes. If some one could only havemade Jim believe that God had joined himto cigarettes, and that he mustn't quit themor he'd shatter the foundations of ourdomestic integrity —he'd have died incheerful smoke—very soon after a timewhen he says I saved his life. All hewanted was some excuse to go onsmoking. Most people are so— slothful-souled. But remember, don't advise yourfriend in town. Her asking advice is a signthat she shouldn't have it. She is not of thecoterie that Paul describes—if you don'tmind Paul once more—'Happy is he thatcondemneth not himself in that which healloweth.'"

There had come to the woman a vastinflux of dignity —a joyous increase in the

volume of that new feeling that called toher husband. She would have gone back,but one of the reasons would have beenbecause she thought it "right"—because itwas what the better world did! But now—ah! now—she was going unhampered bythat compulsion which galls even the best.She was free to stay away, but of her ownglad, loyal will she was going back to thehusband she had treated unjustly, judgedby too narrow a standard.

"Allan will be so astonished anddelighted," she said, when the coupérolled out of the train-shed.

She remembered now with a sort of pridethe fine, unflinching sternness with whichhe had condemned divorce. In a man ofprinciples so staunch one might overlook

many surface eccentricities.

CHAPTER XII

The Flexible Mind of aPleased Husband

As they entered the little reception-roomfrom the hall, the doors of the next roomwere pushed apart and they saw Allanbowing out Mrs. Talwin Covil, a meek,suppressed, neutral-tinted woman, theinevitable feminine corollary of such aman as Cyrus Browett, whose only sistershe was.

The eyes of Nancy, glad with a knowinggladness, were quick for Allan's face,resting fondly there during the seconds inwhich he was changing from the deadastonishment to live recognition at sight ofBernal. During the shouts, the graspings,pokings, nudgings, the pumping of each

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other's arms that followed, Nancy turnedto greet Mrs. Covil, who had pausedbefore her.

"Do sit down a moment and tell methings," she urged, "while those boys goback there to have it out!"

Thus encouraged, Mrs. Covil dropped intoa chair, seeming not loath to tell thosethings she had, while Nancy leaned backand listened duteously for a perfunctoryten minutes. Her thoughts ran ahead toAllan—and to Bernal—as children willrun little journeys ahead of a slow-movingelder.

Then suddenly something that the troubledlittle woman was saying fixed herattention, pulling up her wanderingthoughts with a jerk.

"——and the Doctor asked me, my dear,to treat it quite confidentially, except tobother Cyrus. But, I'm sure he would wishyou to know. Of course it is a delicatematter—I can readily understand, as hesays, how the public would misconstruethe Doctor's words and apply themgenerally—forgetting that each caserequires a different point of view. Butwith Harold it is really a perfectly flagrantand dreadful case of mismating—dueentirely to the poor boy's thoughtlesschivalry—barely twenty-eight, mind you—as if a man nowadays knows his mind atall well before thirty-five. Of course,divorce is an evil that, broadly speaking,threatens the sanctity of our home life—noone understands that better than yourhusband—and re-marriage after divorce is

usually an outrageous scandal—one,indeed, altogether too common—sometimes I wonder what we're comingto, it seems to be done so thoughtlessly —but individual instances are different—'exceptions prove the rule,' you know,as the old saying goes. Now Harold isready to settle down, and the girl is ofexcellent family and all that—quite thesocial and moral brace he needs, in fact."

Nancy was attentive, yet a little puzzled.

"But—you speak of your son, Harold—ishe not already married?"

"That's it, my dear. You know what afunny, bright, mischievous boy Harold is—even a little deliciously wild at times—doubtless you read of his marriage when itoccurred—how these newspapers do

relish anything of the sort—she was atheatrical young woman —what they call a'show girl,' I believe. Humph!— withreason, I must say! Of all the egregiousand inveterate showiness! My dear, she ispositively a creature! Oh, if they'd onlyinvent a monocle that would let a youngman pierce the glamour of the footlights. Ipledge you my word, she's—but nevermind that! Harold was a thoughtless,restless boy—not bad, you know, butheedless. Why, he was quite the sameabout business. He began to speculate, andof course, being brother Cyrus's nephew,his advantage was considerable. But hesuddenly declared he wouldn't be a brokerany more—and you'd never guess hisabsurd reason: simply because some stockhe held or didn't hold went up or down or

something on a rumour in the street thatMr. Russell Sage was extremely ill! Hesaid that this brought him to his senses. Hesays to me, 'Mater, I've not met Mr. Sage,you know, but from what I hear of him itwould be irrational to place myself in aposition where I should have toexperience emotion of any sort at news ofthe old gentleman's taking-off. An event soagreeable to the natural order of God'sprovidence, so plausible, so seemly,should not be endowed with any arbitraryand artificial significance, especially of amonetary character—one must be able toview it absolutely without emotion of anysort, either of regret or rejoicing—onemust remain conscientiously indifferent asto when this excellent old gentlemanpasses on to the Golden Shore'——but

you know the breezy way in which Haroldwill sometimes talk. Only now he seemsreally sobered by this new attachment——"

"But if he is already married——"

"Yes, yes—if you can call it married—aceremony performed by one of thosecommon magistrates—quite without thesanction of the Church—but all that ispast, and he is now ready to marry onewho can be a wife to him—only myconscience did hurt me a little, andbrother Cyrus said to me, 'You see Linfordand tell him I sent you. Linford is a man ofremarkable breadth, of rare flexibility.'"

"Yes, and of course Allan wasemphatically discouraging. " Again shewas recalling the fervour with which he

had declared himself on this point on thatlast day when he actually made herbelieve in him.

"Oh, the Doctor is broad! He is what Ishould call adaptable. He said by allmeans to extricate Harold from thiswretched predicament, not only onaccount of the property interests involved,but on account of his moral and spiritualwelfare; that, while in spirit he holdsdeathlessly to the indissolubility of themarriage tie, still it is unreasonable tosuppose that God ever joined Harold to aperson so much his inferior, and that wemay look forward to the real marriage—that on which the sanctity of the home istruly based—when the law has freed himfrom this boyish entanglement. Oh, my

dear, I feel so relieved to know that myboy can have a wife from his own class—and still have it right up there—with Him,you know!" she concluded with an upwardglance, as Nancy watched her with eyesgrown strangely quiet, almost steely—watched her as one might watch an ant.She had the look of one whose will hadbeen made suddenly to stand aside bysome great inner tumult.

When her caller had gone she droppedback into the chair, absently pulling aglove through the fingers of one hand—herbag and parasol on the floor at her feet.One might have thought her on the point ofleaving instead of having just come. Theshadows were deepening in the corners ofthe room and about her half-shut eyes.

A long time she listened to the animatedvoices of the brothers. At last the doorswere pushed apart and they came out,Allan with his hand on Bernal's shoulder.

"There's your bag—now hurry upstairs—the maid will show you where."

As Bernal went out, Nancy looked up ather husband with a manner curiouslyquiet.

"Well, Nance—" He stepped to the doorto see if Bernal was out of hearing—"Bernal pleases me in the way he talksabout the old gentleman's estate. Either heis most reasonable, or I have never knownmy true power over men."

Her face was inscrutable. Indeed, she onlyhalf heard.

"Mrs. Covil has been telling me some ofyour broader views on divorce."

The words shot from her lips with thecrispness of an arrow, going straight to thebull's-eye.

He glanced quickly at her, the hint of afrown drawing about his eyes.

"Mrs. Covil should have been morediscreet. The authority of a priest in thesematters is a thing of delicate adjustment—the law for one may not be the law for all.These are not matters to gossip of."

"So it seems. I was thinking of youropposite counsel to Mrs. Eversley."

"There—really, you know I read minds, attimes— somehow I knew that would bethe next thing you'd speak of."

"Yes?"

"The circumstances are entirely different—I may add that—that any intimation ofinconsistency will be very unpleasing tome—very!"

"I can see that the circumstances aredifferent—the Eversleys are not what youwould call 'important factors' in theChurch—and besides—that is a case of awife leaving her husband."

"Nance—I'm afraid you're not pleasingme—if I catch your drift. Must I point outthe difference—the spiritual difference?That misguided woman wanted to deserther husband merely because he had hurther pride—her vanity—by certain allegedattentions to other women, concerning themeasure of which I had no knowledge.

That was a case where the cross must beborne for the true refining of that dross ofvanity from her soul. Her husband is ofher class, and her life with him willchasten her. While here—what have wehere?"

He began to pace the floor as he was wontto do when he prepared a sermon.

"Here we have a flagrant example of whatis nothing less than spiritualmiscegenation—that's it!—why didn't Ithink of that phrase before—spiritualmiscegenation. A rattle-brained boy, withthe connivance of a common magistrate,effects a certain kind of alliance with aperson inferior to him in every point ofview—birth, breeding, station, culture,wealth—a person, moreover, who will

doubtless be glad to relinquish her so-called rights for a sum of money. Can that,I ask you, be called a marriage? Can wesuppose an all-wise God to have joinedtwo natures so ill-adapted, so mutuallyexclusive, so repellent to each other afterthat first glamour is past. Really, such asupposition is not only puerile butirreverent. It is the conventionalsupposition, I grant, and theoretically, theunvarying supposition of the Church; butGod has given us reasoning powers to usefearlessly —not to be kept superstitiouslyin the shackles of any traditionwhatsoever. Why, the very Church itselffrom its founding is an example of thewisdom of violating tradition when itshall seem meet—it has always had to dothis."

"I see, Allan—every case must be judgedby itself; every marriage requires aspecial ruling——"

"Well—er—exactly—only don't get tofancying that you could solve theseproblems. It's difficult enough for apriest."

"Oh, I'm positive a mere woman couldn'tgrapple with them—she hasn't the mind to!All she is capable of is to choose whoshall think for her."

"And of course it would hardly do toannounce that I had counselled a certainprocedure of divorce and re-marriage—no matter how flagrant the abuse, nor howobvious the spiritual equity of the step.People at large are so little analytical."

"'Flexible,' Mr. Browett told his sister youwere. He was right—you are flexible,Allan—more so than I ever suspected."

"Nance—you please me—you are a goodgirl. Now I'm going up to Bernal. Bernalcertainly pleases me. Of course I shall dothe handsome thing by him if he acts alongthe lines our talk has indicated."

She still sat in the falling dusk, in the chairshe had taken two hours before, whenAunt Bell came in, dressed for dinner.

"Mercy, child! Do you know how late itis?"

"What did you say, Aunt Bell?"

"I say do you know how late it is?"

"Oh—not too late!"

"Not too late—for what?"

There was a pause, then she said: "AuntBell, when a woman comes to make hervery last effort at self-deception, whydoes she fling herself into it with suchabandon—such pretentious flourishes ofremorse— and things? Is it because someunder layer of her soul knows it will bethe last and will have it a thorough test? Iwonder how much of an arrant fraud awoman may really be to herself, even inher surest, happiest moments."

"There you are again, wondering,wondering— instead of accepting thingsand dressing for dinner. Have you seenAllan?"

"Oh, yes—I've been seeing him for threedays— through a glass, darkly."

Aunt Bell flounced on into the library,trailing something perilously near a sniff.

Bernal came down the stairs and stood inthe door.

"Well, Nance!" He went to stand beforeher and she looked up to him. There wasstill light enough to see his eyes—enoughto see, also, that he was embarrassed.

"Well—I've had quite a talk with Allan."He laughed a little constrained, uneasylaugh, looking quickly at her to see if shemight be observing him. "He's the samefine old chap, isn't he?" Quickly his eyesagain sought her face. "Yes, indeed, he'sthe same old boy—a great old Allan—only he makes me feel that I have changed,Nance."

She arose from her chair, feeling crampedand restless from sitting so long.

"I'm sure you haven't changed, Bernal."

"Oh, I must have!"

He was looking at her very closelythrough the dusk.

"Yes, we had an interesting talk," he saidagain.

He reached out to take one of her hands,which he held an instant in both his own."He's a rare old Allan, Nance!"

CHAPTER XIII

The Wheels within Wheels ofthe Great Machine

For three days the brothers wereinseparable. There were so many ancientmatters to bring forward of which eachcould remember but a half; so many newones, of which each must tell his ownstory. And there was a matter of financebetween them that had been broughtforward by Allan without any foolishdelay. Each of them spoke to Nancy aboutit.

"Bernal has pleased me greatly," said herhusband. "He agrees that GrandfatherDelcher could not have been himself whenhe made that will—being made as it wasdirectly after he sent Bernal off. He findsit absurd that the old man, so firm aChristian, should have disinherited aChristian, one devoted to the ministry ofJesus, for an unbeliever like Bernal. It istrue, I talked to him in this strain myself,and I cannot deny that I wield even agreater influence over men than overwomen. I dare say I could have broughtBernal around even had he been selfishand stubborn. By putting a propositionforward as a matter of course, one mayoften induce another to accept it as such,whereas he might dispute it if it were putforward as at all debatable. But as a

matter of fact he required no talking to; heaccepted my views readily. The boydoesn't seem to know the value of money.I really believe he may decide to makeover the whole of the property to me. Thatis what I call a beautiful unselfishness.But I shall do handsomely by him—probably he can use some money in thatcattle business. I had thought first of tenthousand dollars, but doubtless half thatwill be wiser. I shall insist upon his takingat least half that. He will find thatunselfishness is a game two can play at."

Nancy had listened to this absently,without comment. Nor had Bernal movedher to speech when he said, "You know,Allan is such a sensitive old chap— youwouldn't guess how sensitive. His feelings

were actually hurt because I'd kept him outof grandad's money all these years. He'dforgotten that I didn't know I was doing it.Of course the old boy was thinking whathe'd have done in my place—but I think Ican make it right with him—I'm sure nowhe knows I didn't mean to wrong him."

Yet during this speech he had shot furtivelittle questioning looks at her face, as if toread those thoughts he knew she would notput into words.

But she only smiled at Bernal. Herhusband, however, found her moredifficult than ever after communicating hisnews to her. He tried once to imagine herbeing dissatisfied with him for somereason. But this attempt he abandoned.Thereafter he attributed her coldness,

aloofness, silence, and moodiness to somenervous malady peculiar to the modernwoman. Bernal's presence kept him fromnoting how really pronounced andunwavering her aversion had become.

Nor did Bernal note her attitude.Whatever he may have read in Allan atthose times when the look of coldappraisement was turned full upon him, hehad come to know of his brother's wifeonly that she was Nancy of the old days,strangely surviving to greet him and besilent with him, or to wonder with himwhen he came in out of that preposterousmachine of many wheels that they calledthe town. No one but Nancy saw anythingabout it to wonder at.

To Bernal, after his years in the big empty

places, it was a part of all the world andof all times compacted in a small space.One might see in it ancient Jerusalem,Syria, Persia, Rome and modern Babylon—with something still peculiar andunclassifiable that one would at lengthhave to call New York. And to make itmore absorbing, the figures were alwaysmoving. Where so many were pressedtogether each was weighted by a thousandothers—the rich not less than the poor;each was stirred to quick life and eachwas being visibly worn down by theceaseless friction.

When he had walked the streets for aweek, he saw the city as a huge machine, amachine to which one might not evendeliver a message without becoming a

part of it—a wheel of it. It was a machinealways readjusting, always perfecting,always repairing itself—casting out wornor weak parts and taking in others—everreplacing old wheels with new ones, andnever disdaining any new wheel that foundits place—that could give its cogs to thegeneral efficiency, consenting to be worndown by the unceasing friction.

Looking down Broadway early oneevening—a shining avenue of joy—hethought of the times when he had gazedacross a certain valley of his West anddreamed of bringing a message to thisspot.

Against the sky many electric signs flamedgarishly. Beneath them were the littlegrinding wheels of the machine—

satisfied, joyous, wisely sufficient untothemselves, needing no message—least ofall the simple old truth he had to give. Hetried to picture his message blazingagainst the sky among the other legends:from where he stood the three most salientwere the names of a popular pugilist, amalt beverage and a theatre. The need ofanother message was not apparent.

So he laughed at himself and went downinto the crowd foregathered in ways ofpleasure, and there he drank of the beerwhose name was flaunted to the simplestars. Truly a message to this people mustbe put into a sign of electric bulbs; into aphonograph to be listened to for a coin,with an automatic banjo accompaniment;or it must be put upon the stage to be acted

or sung or danced! Otherwise he would bea wheel rejected—a wheel ground up instriving to become a part of the machine ata place where no wheel was needed.

For another experience cooling to his oncewarm hopes, the second day of his visitAllan had taken him to his weeklyMinisters' Meeting—an affair lessformidable than its title might imply.

A dozen or so good fellows of the clothhad luncheon together each Tuesday at thehouse of one or another, or at a restaurant;and here they talked shop or not as theychose, the thing insisted upon beingcongeniality —that for once in the weekthey should be secure from bores.

Here Presbyterian and Unitarian met oncommon ground; Baptist, Catholic,

Episcopalian, Congregationalist,Methodist—all became brothers over thesoup. Weekly they found what wascommon and helpful to all in discussingdetails of church administration, mattersof faith, methods of handling theircharitable funds; or the latest heresy trial.They talked of these things amiably, oftenlightly. They were choice spirits relaxed,who might be grave or gay, as they listed.

Their vein was not too serious the dayBernal was his brother's guest, sittingbetween the very delightful Father Rileyand the exciting Unitarian, one Whittaker.With tensest interest he listened to theirtalk.

At first there was a little of Delitzsch andhis Babel-Bible addresses, brought up by

Selmour, an amiable Presbyterian ofshining bare pate and cheerful red beard, aman whom scandal had filliped ever socoyly with a repute of leanings towardUniversalism.

This led to a brief discussion of the oldand new theology—Princeton standing forthe old with its definition of Christianityas "a piece of information givensupernaturally and miraculously";Andover standing for the new—so allegedWhittaker—with many polite andingenious evasions of this propositionwithout actually repudiating it.

The Unitarian, however, was held to bethe least bit too literal in his treatment ofpropositions not his own.

Then came Pleydell, another high-church

Episcopalian who, over his chop and amodest glass of claret, declared earnestwar upon the whole Hegel-Darwinian-Wellhausen school. His method of attackwas to state baldly the destructiveconclusions of that school—that most ofthe books of the Old Testament areliterary frauds, intentionallymisrepresenting the development ofreligion in Israel; that the whole Mosaiccode is a later fabrication and its claim tohave been given in the wilderness anhistorical falsehood. From this he deducedthat a mere glance at the Bible, as thehigher critics explain it, must convince theearnest Christian that he can have no sharein their views. "Deprive Christianity of itssupernatural basis," he said, "and youwould have a mere speculative

philosophy. Deny the Fall of Man in theGarden of Eden, and the Atonementbecomes meaningless. If we have notincurred God's wrath through Adam'sdisobedience, we need no Saviour. That isthe way to meet the higher criticism, " heconcluded earnestly.

As the only rule of the association wasthat no man should talk long upon anymatter, Floud, the fiery and aggressivelittle Baptist, hereupon savagely revieweda late treatise on the ethnic Trinities, putout by a professor of ecclesiastical historyin a New England theological seminary.Floud marvelled that this author couldretain his orthodox standing, for heviewed the Bible as a purely humancollection of imperfect writings, the

wonder-stories concerning the birth anddeath of Jesus as deserving no credence,and denied to Christianity anysupernatural foundation. Polytheism wasshown to be the soil from which alltrinitarian conceptions naturally spring—the Brahmanic, Zoroastrian, Homeric,Plotinian, as well as the Christian trinity— the latter being a Greek idea engraftedon a Jewish stalk. The author's conclusion,by which he reached "an undogmaticgospel of the spirit, independent of allcreeds and forms—a gospel of love toGod and man, with another Trinity ofLove, Truth and Freedom," wasparticularly irritating to the disturbedBaptist, who spoke bitterly of the dayhaving dawned when the Church's mostdangerous enemies were those critical

vipers whom she had warmed in her ownbosom.

Suffield, the gaunt, dark, but twinkling-eyed Methodist, also sniffed at theconclusion of the ethnic-trinities person."We have an age of substitutes," heremarked. "We have had substitutes forsilk and sealskin—very creditablesubstitutes, so I have been assured by alady in whom I have every confidence—substitutes for coffee, for diamonds—substitutes for breakfast which are widelyadvertised—substitutes for medicine—and now we are coming to havesubstitutes for religion—even a substitutefor hell!"

Hereupon he told of a book he had read,also written by an orthodox professor of

theology, in which the argument, advancedupon scriptural evidence, was that thewicked do not go into endless torment, butultimately shrivel and sink into a state ofpractical unconsciousness. Yet the authorhad been unable to find any foundation foruniversalism. This writer, Suffieldexplained, holds that the curtain falls afterthe judgment on a lost world. Nor is thereprobation for the soul after the body dies.The Scriptures teach the ruin of the finalrejecters of Christ; Christ teaches plainlythat they who reject the Gospel will perishin the endless darkness of night. Buteternal punishment does not necessarilymean eternal suffering; hence thehypothesis of the soul graduallyshrivelling for the sin of its unbelief.

The amiable Presbyterian sniffed at this asa sentimental quibble. Punishment ceasesto be punishment when it is not felt—onecannot punish a tree or an unconscioussoul. But this was the spirit of the age.With the fires out in hell, no wonder wehave an age of sugar-candy morality andcheap sentimentalism.

But here the Unitarian wickedlyinterrupted, to remind his Presbyterianbrother that his own church had quenchedthose very certain fires that once burnedunder the pit in which lay the souls ofinfants unbaptised.

The amiable Presbyterian, not relishingthis, still amiably threw the gauntlet downto Father Riley, demanding the Catholicview of the future of unbaptised children.

The speech of the latter was a mellow joy—a south breeze of liquid consonants andlilting vowels finely articulated. Perhapsit was not a little owing to the good man'slove for what he called "oiling the rustyhinges of the King's English with a weedrop of the brogue"; but, if so, the oil wasso deftly spread that no one word betrayedits presence. Rather was his whole speechpervaded by this soft delight, especiallywhen his cherubic face, his pink cheeksglistening in certain lights with a faintsilvery stubble of beard, mellowed withhis gentle smile. It was so now, evenwhen he spoke of God's penalties for thesouls of reprobate infants.

"All theologians of the Mother Church areagreed," replied the gracious father, "first,

that infants dying unbaptised are excludedfrom the Kingdom of Heaven. Second, thatthey will not enjoy the beatific visionoutside of heaven. Third, that they willarise with adults and be assembled forjudgment on the last day. And, fourth, thatafter the last day there will be but twostates, namely: a state of supernatural andsupreme felicity and a state of what, in awide sense, we may call damnation."

Purlingly the good man went on to explainthat damnation is a state admitting of manydegrees; and that the unbaptised infantwould not suffer in that state the samepunishment as the adult reprobate. Whilethe latter would suffer positive pains ofmind and body for his sins, the unfortunateinfant would doubtless suffer no pain of

sense whatever. As to their being exemptfrom the pain of loss, grieving over theirexclusion from the sight of God and theglories of His Kingdom, it is morecommonly held that they do not suffer eventhis; that even if they know others arehappier than themselves, they are perfectlyresigned to God's will and suffer no painof loss in regard to happiness not suited totheir condition.

The Presbyterian called upon them towitness that his church was thus notunique in attaining this sentimentalityregarding reprobate infants.

Then little Floud cited the case of stillanother heretic within the church, aprofessor in a western Methodistuniversity, who declared that biblical

infallibility is a superstitious and hurtfultradition; that all the miracles are merepoetic fancies, incredible and untrue—even irreverent; and that all spiritual truthcomes to man through his brain andconscience. Modern preaching, accordingto the book of this heretic, lacks powerbecause so many churches cling to thetradition that the Bible is infallible. It isthe golden calf of their worship; thepalpable lie that gives the ring ofinsincerity to all their moral exhortations.

So the talk flowed on until the good menagreed that a peculiarity of the time lay inthis: that large numbers of ministers withinthe church were publishing the mostrevolutionary heresies while still clingingto some shred of their tattered orthodoxy.

Also they decided that it would not bewithout interest to know what belief isheld by the man of common education andintelligence—the man who behavescorrectly but will not go to church.

Here Father Riley sweetly reminded them—"No questions are asked in the MotherChurch, gentlemen, that may not beanswered with authority. In your churches,without an authority superior to merereason, destructive questions will beasked more and more frequently."

Gravely they agreed that the church waslosing its hold on the people. That but forits social and charitable activities, itsstate would be alarming.

"Your churches!" Father Riley correctedwith suave persistence. "No church can

endure without an infallible head."

Again and again during the meal Bernalhad been tempted to speak. But each timehe had been restrained by a sense of hisaloofness. These men, too, were wheelswithin the machine, each revolving as hemust. They would simply pity him, or beamused.

More and more acutely was he coming tofeel the futility, the crass, absurdpresumption of what he had come back toundertake. From the lucid quiet of hismountain haunts he had descended into avale where antiquated cymbals clashed inwild discordance above the confusingclatter of an intricate machinery—machinery too complicated to bereadjusted by a passing dreamer. In his

years of solitude he had grown to believethat the teachers of the world were nolonger dominated by that ancientsuperstition of a superhumanly malignantGod. He had been prepared to find that theworld-ideal had grown more lofty in hisabsence, been purified by manyeliminations into a God who, as he hadonce said to Nance, could no more sparethe soul of a Hottentot than the soul of apope. Yet here was a high type of thepriest of the Mother Church, gentle,Godly, learned, who gravely and as onehaving authority told how God wouldblight forever the soul of a childunbaptised, thus imputing to Deity aregard for mechanical rites that wouldconstitute even a poor human father anincredible monster.

Yet the marvel of it seemed to him to liein this: that the priest himself livedactually a life of loving devotion andsacrifice in marked opposition to thisdoctrine of formal cruelty; that his church,more successfully than any other inChristendom, had met the needs ofhumanity, coming closer to men in theirsin and sickness, ministering to them witha deeper knowledge, a more affectionateintimacy, than any other. That all thesemen of God should hold formally todogmas belying the humaneness of theiractual practise—here was the puzzlinganomaly that might well give pause to anycasual message-bringer. Struggle as hemight, it was like a tangling mesh castover him—this growing sense of his ownfutility.

Along with this conviction of hispowerlessness there came to him a newsense of reliance upon Nancy.Unconsciously at first he turned to her forsunlight, big views and quiet power, forthe very stimulus he had been wont todraw from the wide, high reaches of hisfar-off valley. Later, came a consciousturning, an open-eyed bringing of all hisneeds, to lay them in her waiting lap. Thenit was he saw that on that first night atEdom her confidence and enthusiasm hadbeen things he leaned upon quite naturally,though unwittingly. The knowledgebrought him a vague unrest. Furtive,elusive impulses, borne to him on thewings of certain old memories—memories once resolutely put away in theface of his one, big world-desire—now

came to trouble him.

It seemed that one must forever go incircles. With fine courage he had madestraight off to toil up the high difficultpaths of the ideal. Never had heconsciously turned, nor even swerved. Yethere he was at length upon his old tracks,come again to the wondering girl.

Did it mean, then, that his soul was baffled—or did it mean that his soul would notsuffer him to baffle it, try as he might?Was that girl of the old days to greet himwith her wondering eyes at the end ofevery high path? These and many otherquestions he asked himself.

At the close of this day he sought her,eager for the light of her understandingeyes—for a certain waiting sympathy she

never withheld. As she looked up nowwith a kind of composed gladness, itseemed to him that they two alone, out ofall the world, were sanely quiet. Silentlyhe sank into a chair near her and they satlong thus, feeling no need of words. Atlast she spoke.

"Are you coming nearer to it, Bernal?"

He laughed.

"I'm farther away than ever, Nance.Probably there's but one creature in thiscity to-day as out of place as I am. He's abig, awkward, country-looking dog, andhe was lost on Broadway. Did you eversee a lost dog in a city street? This fellowwas actually in a panic, whollydemoralised, and yet he seemed to knowthat he must conceal it for his own safety.

So he affected a fine air of confidence, ofbeing very busy about an engagement forwhich he feared he might be late. Hewould trot swiftly along for half a block,then pause as if trying to recall the streetnumber; then trot a little farther, and stopto look back as if the other party to hisengagement might happen along from thatdirection. It was a splendid bit of acting,and it deceived them all, in that street ofmutterers and hard faces. He was like oneof them, busy and hurried, but apparentlycool, capable, and ominously alert. Only,in his moments of indecision, his eyesshifted the least bit nervously, as if to notewhether the real fear he felt weredetected, and then I could read all hissecret consternation.

"I'm the same lost dog, Nance. I feel as hefelt every time I go into that street wherethe poor creatures hurry and talk tothemselves from sheer nervous fatigue."

He ceased speaking, but she remainedsilent, fearing lest she say too little or toomuch.

"Nance," he said presently with a slow,whimsical glance, "I'm beginning tosuspect that I'm even more of a fool thanHoover thought me—and he was ratherenthusiastic about it, I assure you!"

To which she at length answeredmusingly:

"If God makes us fools, doubtless he likesto have us thorough. Be a great fool,Bernal. Don't be a small one."

CHAPTER XIV

The Ineffective Message

The week had gone while he walked in thecrowds, feeling his remoteness; but heknew at last that he was not of thebrotherhood of the zealots; that the verysense of humour by which he saw thefallacies of one zealot prevented him frombecoming another. He lacked the zealot'sconviction of his unique importance, yetone must be such a zealot to give amessage effectively. He began to see thatthe world could not be lost; that whatevermight be vital in his own message would,

soon or late, be delivered by another. Thetime mattered not. Could he not be asreposeful, as patient, as God?

In spite of which, the impulse to speak hislittle word would recur; and it came uponhim stoutly one day on his way up town.As the elevated train slowly rounded acurve he looked into the open window ofa room where a gloomy huddle of yellow-faced, sunken-cheeked, brown-beardedmen bent their heads over busy sewing-machines. Nearest the window, full beforeit, was one that touched him—a young manwith some hardy spirit of hope stillenduring in his starved face, somestubborn refusal to recognise the oddsagainst him. And fixed to his machine,where his eyes might now and then raise

to it from his work, was a spray of lilac—his little spirit flaunting itself gaily evenfrom the cross. The pathos of it wassomehow intensified by the grinding of thewheels that carried him by it.

The train creaked its way around the curve—but the face dreaming happily over thelilac spray in that hopeless room stayed inhis mind, coercing him.

As he entered the house, Nancy met him.

"Do go and be host to those men. It's ourday for the Ministers' Meeting," shecontinued, as he looked puzzled, "and justas they sat down Allan was called out toone of his people who is sick. Now runlike a good boy and 'tend to them."

So it came that, while the impulse was

still strong upon him, he went in among thedozen amiable, feeding gentlemen whowere not indisposed to listen towhomsoever might talk—if he did notbore—which is how it befell that they hadpresently cause to remark him.

Not at first, for he mumbled hesitatingly,without authority of manner or point to hiswords, but the phrase, "the fundamentaldefect of the Christian religion" causedeven the Unitarian to gasp over his glassof mineral water. His green eyes glitteredpleasantly upon Bernal from his dark facewith its scraggly beard.

"That's it, Mr. Linford—tell us that—weneed to know that—do we not,gentlemen?"

"Speak for yourself, Whittaker," snapped

the aggressive little Baptist, "butdoubtless Mr. Linford has something tosay."

Bernal remained unperturbed by this. Veryearnestly he continued: "Christianity isdefective, judged even by poor humanstandards; untrue by the plain facts ofhuman consciousness."

"Ah! Now we shall learn!" Father Rileyturned his most gracious smile upon thespeaker.

"Your churches are losing their hold uponmen because your religion is one ofseparation, here and hereafter—while theone great tendency of the age is towardbrotherhood—oneness. Primitive man hadindividual pride—family pride, city pride,state pride, national pride followed—but

we are coming now to the onlypermissible pride, a world pride—inwhich the race feels its oneness. We arenearly there; even now the spirit thatdenies this actual brotherhood is confinedto the churches. The people outside moregenerally than you dream know that Goddoes not discriminate among religions—that he has a scheme of a dignity so truethat it can no more permit the loss of oneblack devil-worshipper than that of themost magnificent of archbishops."

He stopped, looking inquiringly—almostwistfully, at them.

Various polite exclamations assured himof their interest.

"Continue, by all means," urged Whittaker."I feel that you will have even Father

Riley edified in a moment."

"The most cynical chap—even for aUnitarian," purled that good man.

Bernal resumed.

"Your God is a tribal God who performedhis wonders to show that he had set adifference between Israel and Egypt. YourSaviour continues to set the samedifference: Israel being those whobelieved his claim to Godship; Egyptthose who find his evidence insufficient.But we humans daily practise better thanthis preaching of retaliation. The Churchis losing power because your creeds arefixed while man, never ceasing to grow,has inevitably gone beyond them— evenbeyond the teachings of your Saviour whothreatened to separate father from son and

mother from daughter—who woulddistinguish sheep from goats by the mereintellectual test of the opinion they formedof his miracles. The world to-day insistson moral tests—which Christianity hasnever done."

"Ah—now we are getting at it," remarkedthe Methodist, whose twinkling eyescuriously belied his grimly solemn face."Who was it that wished to know thebelief of the average unbeliever?"

"The average unbeliever," answeredBernal promptly, "no longer feels the needof a Saviour—he knows that he must savehimself. He no longer believes in the Godwho failed always, from Eden to Calvary,failed even to save his chosen tribe by thatlast device of begetting a son of a human

mother who should be sacrificed to him.He no longer believes that he must have amediator between himself and that God."

"Really, most refreshing," chortled FatherRiley. "More, more!" and he rapped forsilence.

"The man of to-day must have a God whonever fails. Disguise it as you will, yourChristian God was never loved. No Godcan be loved who threatens destruction fornot loving him. We cannot love one whomwe are not free not to love."

"Where shall we find this God—outsideof Holy Writ," demanded Floud, who hadonce or twice restrained himself withdifficulty, in spite of his amusement.

"The true God comes to life in your own

consciousness, if you will clear it of theblasphemous preconceptions imposed byChristianity," answered Bernal soseriously that no one had the heart tointerrupt him. "Of course we can neverpersonify God save as a higher power ofself. Moses did no more; Jesus did nomore. And if we could stop with this—becontent with saying 'God is better than thebest man'—we should have a formulapermitting endless growth, even as Hepermits it to us. God has been moregenerous to us than the Church has been toHim. While it has limited Him to that godof bloody sacrifice conceived by abarbaric Jew, He has permitted us to growso that now any man who did not surpasshim morally, as the scriptures portray him,would be a man of inconceivable

malignity.

"You see the world has demonstrated factsthat disprove the Godship of your God andyour Saviour. We have come, indeed, intoa sense of such certain brotherhood thatwe know your hell is a falsity. We know—a knowledge of even the rudiments ofpsychology proves—that there will be ahell for all as long as one of us is there.Our human nature is such that one soul inhell would put every other soul there.Daily this becomes more apparent. Wegrow constantly more sensitive to the painof others. This is the distinctive feature ofmodern growth—our increasing tendencyto find the sufferings of others intolerableto ourselves. A disaster now is felt aroundthe world—we burn or starve or freeze or

drown with our remote brothers— and wedo what we can to relieve them becausewe suffer with them. It seems to me theexistence of the S.P.C.A. proves that hellis either for all of us or for none of us—because of our oneness. If the suffering ofa stray cat becomes our suffering, do youimagine that the minority of the race whichChristianity saves could be happyknowing that the great majority lay intorment?

"Suppose but two were left in hell—JudasIscariot and Herbert Spencer—the firstgreat sinner after Jesus and the last of anyconsequence. One betrayed his master andthe other did likewise, only with fargreater subtlety and wickedness—teachingthousands to disbelieve his claims to

godhood—to regard Christianity as acrude compound of Greek mythology andJewish tradition—a thing built of myth andfable. Even if these two were damned andall the rest were saved— can you not seethat a knowledge of their suffering wouldembitter heaven itself to another hell?Father Riley was good enough to tell uslast week of the state of unbaptised infantsafter death. Will you please considercoldly the infinite, good God setting adifference for all eternity between twobabies, because over the hairless pate ofone a priest had sprinkled water andspoken words? Can you not see that this isuntrue because it is absurd to our God-given senses of humour and justice? Doyou not see that such a God, in the act ofseparating those children, taking into

heaven the one that had had its little headwetted by a good man, and sending thereprobate into what Father Riley terms, 'ina wide sense, a state of damnation'——"

Father Riley smiled upon him withwinning sweetness.

"——do you not see that such a Godwould be shamed off his throne and out ofheaven by the pitying laugh that would goup—even from sinners?

"You insist that the truth touching faith andmorals is in your Bible, despite itshistorical inaccuracies. But do you not seethat you are losing influence with theworld because this is not so—because ahigher standard of ethics than yoursprevails out in the world—a demand for averitable fatherhood of God and a

veritable brotherhood of man—to replacethe caricatures of those doctrines thatChristianity submits."

"Our young friend seems to thinkexceeding well of human nature," chirpedFather Riley.

"Yes," rejoined Bernal. "Isn't it droll thatthis poor, fallen human nature, despisedand reviled, 'conceived in sin and born ininiquity,' should at last call the ChristianGod and Saviour to account, weigh themby its own standard, find them wanting,and replace them with a greater God bornof itself? Is not that an eloquent proof ofthe living God that abides in us?"

"Has it ever occurred to you, young man,that human nature has its selfishmoments?" asked the high-church rector—

between sips of claret and water.

"Has it ever occurred to you that humannature has any but selfish moments?"replied Bernal. "If so, your impressionwas incorrect."

"Really, Mr. Linford, have you not justbeen telling us how glorious is this natureof man——"

"I know—I will explain to you," he wenton, moving Father Riley to anotherindulgent smile by his willingness toinstruct the gray-beardedCongregationalist who had interrupted.

"When I saw that there must be a hell forall so long as there is a hell for one—evenfor Spencer—I suddenly saw there wasnothing in any man to merit the place—

unless it were the ignorance of immaturity.For I saw that man by the very first law ofhis being can never have any but a selfishmotive. Here again practical psychologysustains me. You cannot so much as raiseyour hand without an intention to promoteyour happiness— nor are you less selfishif you give your all to the needy —you arestill equally doing that which promotesyour happiness. That it is more blessed togive than to receive is a terse statement ofa law scientifically demonstrable. You allknow how far more exquisite is thepleasure that comes from giving than thatwhich comes from receiving. Is not onewho prefers to give then simply selfishwith a greater wisdom, a finer skill for theresult desired—his own pleasure? Theman we call good is not less selfish than

the man we call bad—only wiser in theways that bring his happiness—riper inthat divine sensitiveness to the feelings ofhis brother. Selfish happiness is equally alaw with all, though it send one of us tothieving and another to the cross.

"Ignorance of this primary truth has keptthe world in spiritual darkness—it hasnurtured belief in sin—in a devil, in aGod that permits evil. For when you tellme that my assertion is a mere quibble—that it matters not whether we call a manunselfish or wisely selfish— you fail tosee that, when we understand this truth,there is no longer any sin. 'Sin' is thenseen to be but a mistaken notion of whatbrings happiness. Last night's burglar andyour bishop differ not morally but

intellectually —one knowing surer waysof achieving his own happiness, beingmore sensitive to that oneness of the racewhich thrills us all in varying degrees.When you know this—that the differenceis not moral but intellectual, self-righteousness disappears and with it abelief in moral difference—the lastobstacle to the realisation of our oneness.It is in the church that this fiction of moraldifference has taken its final stand.

"And not only shall we have no fullrealisation of the brotherhood of man untilthis inevitable, equal selfishness isunderstood, but we shall have no rationalconception of virtue. There will be nosound morality until it is taught for itspresent advantage to the individual, and

not for what it may bring him in a futureworld. Not until then will it be taughteffectively that the well-being of one isinextricably bound up with the well-beingof all; that while man is always selfish,his selfish happiness is still contingent onthe happiness of his brother."

The moment of coffee had come. TheUnitarian lighted a black cigar and avidlydemanded more reasons why the Christianreligion was immoral.

"Still for the reason that it separates,"continued Bernal, "separates not onlyhereafter but here. We have kings andserfs, saints and sinners, soldiers to killone another—God is still a God of Battle.There is no Christian army that may notconsistently invoke your God's aid to

destroy any other Christian army— nonewhose spiritual guides do not pray to Godfor help in the work of killing otherChristians. So long as you have separationhereafter, you will have these absurddivisions here. So long as you preach aSaviour who condemns to everlastingpunishment for disbelief, so long you willhave men pointing to high authority for alltheir schemes of revenge and oppressionhere.

"Not until you preach a God big enough tosave all can you arouse men to the truththat all must be saved. Not until you havea God big enough to love all can you havea church big enough to hold all.

"An Indian in a western town must havemastered this truth. He had watched a fight

between drunken men in which one shotthe other. He said to me, 'When I see howbad some of my brothers are, I know howgood the Great Spirit must be to love themall!'"

"Was—was he a member of any church?"inquired the amiable Presbyterian, with afacetious gleam in his eyes.

"I didn't ask him—of course we know hewasn't a Presbyterian."

Hereupon Father Riley and the wickedUnitarian both laughed joyously. Then theCongregationalist, gazing dreamilythrough the smoke of his cigarette,remarked, "You have omitted anyreference to the great fact of Christianity—the sacrifice of the Son of Man."

"Very well, I will tell you about it,"answered the young man quite earnestly,whereat the Unitarian fairly glowed withwicked anticipations.

"Let us face that so-called sacrificehonestly. Jesus died to save those whocould accept his claim to godship —believing that he would go to sit at theright hand of God to judge the world. Butlook—an engineer out here the other daydied a horrible death to save the lives of ascant fifty people—their mere physicallives—died out of that simple sense ofoneness which makes us selfishly fear forthe suffering of others—died without anyhope of superior exaltation hereafter.Death of this sort is common. I would notbelittle him you call the Saviour—as a

man he is most beautiful and moving to me—but that shall not blind me to the factthat the sacrificial element in his death issurpassed daily by common, dull humans."

A veiled uneasiness was evident on thepart of his listeners, but the speaker gaveno heed.

"This spectacle of sacrifice, of devotionto others, is needed as an uplift," he wenton earnestly, "but why dwell upon oneremote—obscured by claims of a God-jugglery which belittle it if they be true—when all about you are countless plain,unpretentious men and women dyingdeaths and—what is still greater,— livinglives of cool, relentless devotion out ofsheer human love.

"Preach this divineness of human nature

and you will once more have a livingchurch. Preach that our oneness is so realthat the best man is forever shackled to theworst. Preach that sin is but ignorantselfishness, less admirable than virtueonly as ignorance is less admirable thanknowledge.

"In these two plain laws—the individual'sentire and unvarying selfishness and hisever-increasing sensitiveness to thesufferings of others—there is the promisenot of a heaven and a hell, but of a heavenfor all—which is what the world is moreand more emphatically demanding—which it will eventually produce evenhere—for we have as little sensed thepossibilities of man's life here as we havedivined the attributes of God himself.

"Once you drove away from your churchthe big men, the thinkers, the fearless—thesouls God must love most truly were itpossible to conceive him setting adifference among his creatures. Now youdrive away even the merely intelligentrabble. The average man knows yourdefect—knows that one who believesChrist rose from the dead is not by thatfact the moral superior of one whobelieves he did not; knows, indeed, ofGod, that he cannot be a fussy, vain,blustering creature who is forever failingand forever visiting the punishment for hisfailures upon his puppets.

"This is why you are no longer considereda factor in civilisation, save as a sort ofpolice-guard upon the very ignorant. And

you are losing this prestige. Even thecredulous day-labourer has come to weighyou and find you wanting—is thrillingwith his own God-assurance and steppingforth to save himself as best he can.

"But, if you would again draw man, heathim, weld him, hold him—preach Man tohim, show him his own goodness insteadof loading him with that vicious untruth ofhis conception in iniquity. Preach to himthe limitless devotion of his common dullbrothers to one another through their senseof oneness. Show him the commonbeautiful, wonderful, selfish self-giving ofhumanity, not for an hour or for a day, butfor long hard life-times. Preach theexquisite adjustment of that human naturewhich must always seek its own

happiness, yet is slowly finding that thathappiness depends on the happiness of all.The lives of daily crucifixion withouthope of reward are abundant all about you—you all know them. And if once youexploit these actual sublimities of humannature—of the man in the street—no taleof devotion in Holy Writ will ever againmove you as these do. And when you havepreached this long enough, then will takeplace in human society, naturally,spontaneously, that great thing which bigmen have dreamed of doing with theirartificial devices of socialism andanarchism. For when you havedemonstrated the race's eternal onenessman will be as little tempted to oppress,starve, enslave, murder or separate hisbrothers as he is now tempted to mutilate

his own body. Then only will he love hisneighbor as himself—still with a selfishlove.

"Preach Man to man as a discovery inGodhood. You will not revive the ancientglories of your Church, but you will builda new church to a God for whom you willnot need to quibble or evade or apologise.Then you will make religion the one force,and you will rally to it those great mindswhose alienation has been both yourreproach and your embarrassment. Youwill enlist not only the scientist but thepoet—and all between. You will have aGod to whom all confess instinctively."

CHAPTER XV

The Woman at the End of thePath

He stopped, noticing that the chairs werepushed back. There was an unmistakeableair of boredom, though one or two of themen still smoked thoughtfully. One ofthese, indeed—the high church rector—even came back with a question, to theundisguised apprehension of severalbrothers.

"You have formulated a certain fashion ofbelief, Mr. Linford, one I dare say

appealing to minds that have not yetlearned that even reason must submit toauthority; but you must admit that thisrevelation of God in the human heartcarries no authoritative assurance ofimmortality."

Bernal had been sitting in someembarrassment, dismayed at his ownvehemence, but this challenge stirred him.

"True," he answered, "but let us thank Godfor uncertainty, if it take the place ofChristian belief in a sparsely peopledheaven and a crowded hell."

"Really, you know——"

"I know nothing of a future life; but Iprefer ignorance to a belief that the mostheinous baby that ever died in sin is to

languish in a state of damnation—even 'ina wide sense' as our good friend puts it."

"But, surely, that is the first great questionof all people in all ages—'If a man dieshall he live again?'

"Because there has never been anydignified conception of a Supreme Being.I have tried to tell you what my own faithis—faith in a God wiser and more lovingthan I am, who, being so, has devised nomean little scheme of revenge such as youpreach. A God more loving than my ownhuman father, a God whose plan is perfectwhether it involve my living or dying.Whether I shall die to life or to death isnot within my knowledge; but since Iknow of a truth that the God I believe inmust have a scheme of worth and dignity, I

am unconcerned. Whether his plan demandextinction or immortality, I worship himfor it, not holding him to any trivial fancyof mine. God himself can be no surer ofhis plan's perfection than I am. I call thisfaith—faith the more perfect that it iswithout condition, asking neither sign normiracle."

"And life is so good that I've no time towhine. If this ego of mine is presently tobecome unnecessary in the great Plan, myfaith is still triumphant. It would beinteresting to know the end, but it's not soimportant as to know that I am no better—only a little wiser in certain ways—thanyesterday's murderer. Living under theperfect plan of a perfect Creator, I neednot trouble about hidden details when so

many not hidden are more vital. When, insome far-off future, we learn to live hereas fully and beautifully as we have powerto, I doubt not that in the natural ways ofgrowth we shall learn more of this detailof life we call 'death'—but I can imaginenothing of less consequence to one whohas faith.

"I saw a stanza the other day that tells itwell:

"'We know notwhence is life, norwhither death,Know not the Powerthat circumscribesour breath.But yet we do not

fear; what made usmen,What gave us love,shall we not trustagain?'"

While quoting the lines his eyes had beenstraight ahead, absently dwelling upon thespace between the slightly parted doorsthat gave into the next room. But even ashe spoke, the last line faltered and halted.His glance slowly stiffened out ofwidening eyes to the face it had caughtthere—a face new, strange, mesmeric, thatall at once enchained him soul and body.With a splendid, reckless might it assailedhim—left him dazed, deaf, speechless.

It was the face of Nancy, for the first time

all its guards down. Full upon him flamedthe illumined eyes that made the face ayielding radiance; lifted a little was thechin of gentle curves, the under lip caughtas if in that quivering eagerness she nolonger breathed—the face of Nancy, nolonger wondering, Nancy at lastcompelled and compelling. A moment thewarm light flashed from each to each.

He stopped in a sudden bewilderment,looking blankly, questioningly at the facesabout him. Then out of the first chaoscame the sense of having awakened fromsome long, quiet sleep—of havingsuddenly opened his eyes upon a worldfrom which the morning mists had lifted,to see himself—and the woman who stoodalways at the end of that upward path—

face to face for the first time. One by onehis outer sensations returned. At first heheard a blurred murmuring, then hebecame aware that some of the men werelooking at him curiously, that one of themhad addressed him. He smiledapologetically.

"I beg your pardon. I—I couldn't havebeen listening."

"I merely asked," repeated Floud, "howyou expect to satisfy humanity with thevague hope that you would substitute forthe Christian promise of eternal life."

He stared stupidly at the questioner.

"I—I don't know." He passed a handslowly upward over his forehead. "ReallyI can hardly trouble about those matters—

there's so much life to live. I think I knewa moment ago, but I seem to haveforgotten, though it's doubtless no greatloss. I dare say it's more important to beunafraid of life than to be unafraid ofdeath."

"You were full of reasons a moment ago,"reminded Whittaker—"some of them notuninteresting."

"Was I? Oh, well, it's a small matter—I'vesomehow lost hold of it." He laughedawkwardly. "It seems to have come to mejust now that those who study an appleuntil it falls from its stem and rots areeven more foolish than those who pluckand eat."

Again he was silent, with a great hiddenimpatience for them to be gone. But

Whittaker, the wicked Unitarian, detainedthem still a moment longer.

"How hardly we should believe in a Godwho saved every one!" he breathed softlyto the remains of his cigar.

"Humph! Such a God would be a meremush of concession!" retorted Floud, theBaptist.

"And how true," pursued the unruffledUnitarian, "that we cannot worship a 'meremush of concession' —how true that ourGod must hate what we hate, and punishwhat we would punish. We might stomacha God who would save orthodox burglarsalong with orthodox bishops, but not onewho saved unbaptised infants and adultsof unsound doctrine. Dear, dear, yes! Wemust have a God with a little human spite

in Him or He seems to be spineless."

"A hopeless cynic," declared the softvoice of the Catholic—"it's theUnitarianism working out of him, mindyou!"

"So glad to have met you!" continued thesame good man to Bernal. "Your wordsare conducive to thought—you're anearnest, decent lad at all events."

But Bernal scarcely heard them oridentified the speakers. They were to himbut so many noisy wheels of the vastmachine, each revolving as it must. Hiswhole body seemed to send electricsparks of repulsion out to them to drivethem away as quickly as might be. All hisenergies were centred to one mightyimpulse.

At last the door closed and he stood alonewith the disordered table and the pushedback chairs, doggedly gathering himself.Then he went to the doors and with a handto each, pushed them swiftly apart.

She stood at the farther side of the room.She seemed to have fled there, and yet sheleaned toward him breathless, again withthe under lip caught fast in its quivering—helpless, piteously helpless. It was thisthat stayed him. Had she utterly shrunkaway, even had he found her denying,defiant—the aroused man had prevailed.But seeing her so, he caught at the back ofa chair as if to hold himself. Then hegazed long and exultingly into the eyesyielded so abjectly to his. For a moment itfilled him to see and know, to be certain

that she knew and did not deny. But theman in him was not yet a reasoning man—too lately had he come to life.

He stepped eagerly toward her, to haltonly when one weak white hand falteredup with absurd pretension of a power toward him off. Nor was it her hand thatmade him stop then. That barrierconfessed its frailness in every droopingline. Again it was the involuntarysubmission of her whole poise—she hadactually leaned a little further toward himwhen he started, even as her hand went up.But the helpless misery in her eyes wasstill a defense, passive but sufficient.

Then she spoke and his tension relaxed alittle, the note of helpless suffering in hervoice making him wince and fall back a

step.

"Bernal, Bernal, Bernal! It hurts me so,hurts me so! It's the Gratcher—isn't ithurting you, too? Oh, it must be!"

He retreated a little, again grasping theback of the chair with one hand, but therewas no restraint in his voice.

"Laugh, Nance, laugh! You know whatlaughing does to them!"

"Not to this one, Bernal—oh, not to thisone!"

"But it's only a Gratcher, Nance! I've beenasleep all these years. Now I'm awake.I'm in the world again—here, do youunderstand, before you. And it's a glad,good world. I'm full of its life—and I'vemoney —think of that! Yesterday I didn't

know what money was. I was going tothrow it away—throw it away as lightlyas I threw away all those good, preciousyears. How much it seems now, and whatfine, powerful stuff it is! And I, like asleeping fool, was about to let it go at amere suggestion from Allan."

He stopped, as if under the thrust of acold, keen blade.

"He gazed long and exultingly into the

eyes yielded so abjectly to his."

"Allan—Allan!" he repeated dazedlywhile the look of pain deepened in thewoman's eyes. He stared back at herdumbly. Then another awakening becamevisible in him and he laughed awkwardly.

"It's funny, Nance—funny—and awful! Doyou know that not until I spoke his namethen had a thought of Allan come to me?Can you comprehend it? I can't now. Butit's the truth. I woke up too suddenly.Allan—Allan—." It sounded as if he weretrying to recall some forgotten personality."Oh, Allan!"

The last was more like a cry. He fell intothe chair by which he had stood. And nowthe woman erected herself, comingforward to stand before him, her head

bowed, her hands convulsivelyinterlocked.

"Do you see it all, Bernal? Is it plainnow? Oh, how it tortured me—that lastGratcher—the one we make in our ownimage and yet make to be perfect. It neverhurt me before, but now I know why. Itcouldn't hurt me so long as I looked itstraight in the eye—but just now my eyeshad to fall before it, and all in a second itwas tearing me to pieces. That's the onlydefense against this last Gratcher, Bernal,to look it in the eyes unafraid. And oh, ithurts so—and it's all my own miserablefault!"

"No, it's your goodness, Nance." He spokevery quietly now. "Only the good have aGratcher that can't be laughed away. My

own was late in coming. Your Gratcherhas saved us."

He stood up and took her unresistinghands in both his own. They rested therein peace, yielding themselves like tiredchildren to caring arms.

"Now I shall be healed," she said.

"It will take me longer, Nance. My hurt ismore stubborn, more complicated. I can'thelp it. Something in me resists. I see nowthat I know too much— too much of you,too much of——"

She saw that he must have suffered someillumination upon Allan. There was a lookof bitter comprehension in his face as hebroke off. She turned away from it.

When, an hour later, Allan came in, he

found them chatting easily of the fewpeople of St. Antipas that Bernal had met.At the moment, they were discussing Mrs.Wyeth, whose face, Bernal declared, wasof a rare perfection. Nance turned to herhusband.

"You must thank Bernal," she said, "forentertaining your guests this afternoon."

"He wouldn't if he knew what I said—orhow it must have bored them. One thing,Nance, they won't meet here again untilyou swear I've gone!"

"Bernal's heart is right, even if histheology doesn't always please me," saidhis brother graciously, examining somecards that lay on the table. "I see Mrs.Wyeth has called," he continued to Nancy,looking up from these.

"Yes. She wanted me to see her sister,poor Mrs. Eversley, who is ill at herhouse. I promised to look in to-morrow."

"I've just been telling Nance how beautifulI think Mrs. Wyeth is," said Bernal. "She'srare, with that face of the low-browedGreek. It's one of the memories I shall takeback to my Eve-less Eden."

"She is beautiful," said Nancy. "Of courseher nose is the least bit thin and long, butit rather adds zest to her face. Now I mustdress for dinner."

When Nancy had gone, Bernal, who hadbeen speaking with a marked lightness oftone, turned to Allan with an equallymarked seriousness.

"Old chap, you know about that money of

mine— of Grandfather's?"

Allan instantly became attentive.

"Of course, there's no hurry about that—you must take time to think it over," heanswered.

"But there is hurry! I shouldn't havewaited so long to make up my mind.

"Then you have made up your mind?"questioned his brother, with guardedeagerness.

"Definitely. It's all yours, Allan. It willhelp you in what you want to do. And nothaving it will help me to do what I want todo—make it simpler, easier. Take it—andfor God's sake be good to Nancy."

"I can't tell you how you please me,

Bernal. Not that I'm avid for money, but ittruly seems more in accord with whatmust have been grandfather's real wish.And Nancy—of course I shall be good toher— though at times she seems unable toplease me."

There was a sanctified displeasure in histone, as he spoke of Nancy. It causedBernal to turn upon him a keen,speculative eye, but only for a moment.And his next words had to do with matterstangible. "To-morrow I'll do some of thebusiness that can be done here. Then I'llgo up to Edom and finish the transfers thathave to be made there." After a briefhesitation, he added: "Try to please her abit, Allan. That's all."

CHAPTER XVI

In Which the Mirror is Heldup to Human Nature

When, the next day, Nancy went to pay herpromised visit to Mrs. Eversley, therectory was steeped in the deep householdpeace of mid-afternoon. Both Allan andBernal had gone out soon after luncheon,while Aunt Bell had withdrawn into thesilence, there to meditate the first lettersof the alphabet of the inexpressible, tohover about the pleasant line that dividesthe normal from the subliminal.

Though bruised and torn, Nancy was stillgrimly upright in the eye of duty, still aworthy follower of orthodox ways. Buriedin her own eventful thoughts in that mind-world where love is born and dies, wherebeliefs rise and perish but no sound everdisturbs the stillness, she made her wayalong the shaded side of the street towardthe Wyeth residence. Not until she hadpassed several doors beyond the housedid she recall her errand, remember thather walk led to a goal, that she herself hadmatters in hand other than thinking,thinking, thinking.

Retracing her steps, she rang the bell andasked for Mrs. Eversley. Before theservant could reply, Mrs. Wyeth rustledprettily down the hall from the library at

the back. She wore a gown of primroseyellow. An unwonted animation lightedthe cold perfection of her face, like fireseen through ice.

"So glad to see you!" she said withgraceful effusion— "And the Doctor? Andthat queer, fascinating, puzzling brother ofyours, how are they? So glad! Yes, poorsister keeps to her room and you reallymustn't linger with me an instant. I'm noteven going to ask you to sit down. Goright up. Her door's at the end of the hall,you know. You'll comfort the poor thingbeautifully, you dear!"

She paused for breath, a vivid smiletaking the place of words. Mrs. Linford,rendered oddly, almost obstinatelyreserved by this excessive cordiality, was

conscious of something unnatural in thatsmile—a too great intensity, like thegreenness of artificial palms.

"Thank you so much for coming, youangel," she went on playfully, "fordoubtless I shall not be visible when yougo. You see Donald's off in the back of thehouse re-arranging whole shelves ofwretched, dusty books and he fancies thathe must have my suggestions."

"The door at the end of the hall!" shetrilled in sweet but unmistakabledismissal, one arm pointing gracefullyaloft from its enveloping foam ofdraperies, that same too-intense smileupon the Greek face that even Nancy, inmoments of humane expansion, hadadmitted to be all but faultless. And the

latter, wondering not a little at the stiffdisposition to have her quickly away,which she had somehow divined throughall the gushing cordiality of Mrs. Wyeth'smanner, went on upstairs. As she rappedat Mrs. Eversley's door, the bell of thestreet door sounded in her ears.

Somewhat less than an hour after, shecame softly out again, opening and closingthe door noiselessly. So effectually hadshe soothed the invalid, that the latter hadfallen into a much-needed sleep, andNancy, eager to escape to that mind-worldwhere the happenings are so momentousand the silence is so tense, had crept like amouse from the room.

At the top of the stairs she paused togather up her skirts. Then her ears seemed

to catch the sound of voices on the floorbelow and she remained motionless for asecond, listening. She had no desire toencounter for the second time the torrentof Mrs. Wyeth's manner, no wish to meetunnecessarily one so disagreeably giftedin the art of arousing in her an aversion ofwhich she was half ashamed.

No further sound greeted her strainingears, and, deciding that the way was clear,she descended the thickly carpeted stairs.Near the bottom, opposite the open doorsof the front drawing-room, she paused tolook into the big mirror on the oppositewall. As she turned her head for a finaltouch to the back of her veil, her eyesbecame alive to something in that cornerof the room now revealed to her by the

mirror —something that held her frozenwith embarrassment.

Though the room lay in the dusk of drawncurtains, the gown of Mrs. Wyeth showedunmistakably —Mrs. Wyeth abandoned tothe close, still embrace of an unrecognizedman.

Distressed at the awkwardness of herposition, Nancy hesitated, not knowingwhether to retreat or go forward. She haddecided to go on, observing nothing—andof course she had observed nothing savean agreeable incident in the oft impugneddomesticity of Mr. and Mrs. Wyeth—when a further revelation arrested her.

Even as she put her foot to the next step,the face of Mrs. Wyeth was lifted andMrs. Wyeth's big eyes fastened upon hers

through the impartial mirror. But theirexpression was not that of the placidmatron observed in a passage of conjugaltenderness. Rather, it was one of acutedismay—almost fear. Poor Mrs. Weyth,who had just said, "Doubtless I shall notbe visible when you go!"

Even as she caught this look, Nancystarted down the remaining steps, hercheeks hot from her own wretchedawkwardness. She wanted to hurry—torun; she might still escape without havingreason to suspect that the obscured personwas other than he should be in the opinionof an exacting world. Then, as her handwas at the door, while the silken rustlingof that hurried disentanglement was in herears, the voice of Wyeth sounded remotely

from the rear of the house. It seemed tocome from far back in the library,removed from them by the length of thedouble drawing-rooms —a comfortable,smooth, high-pitched voice— lazy,drawling——

"Oh, Linford!"Linford! The name seemed to sink into thestillness of the great house, leaving noripple behind. Before an answer to thecall could come, she had opened the greatdoor and pulled it sharply to behind her.

Outside, she lingered a moment as if inserenely absent contemplation of thestreet, with the air of one who sought torecall her next engagement. Then,gathering up her skirts, she went leisurelydown the steps and passed unhurriedly

from the view of those dismayed eyes thatshe felt upon her from the Wyeth window.

On the avenue she turned north and waspresently alone in a shaded aisle of thepark—that park whose very trees andshrubs seem to have taken on a hard,knowing look from having been so longmade the recipients of cynicalconfidences. They seemed to understandperfectly what had happened, to echoWyeth's high-pitched, friendly drawl, withan added touch of mockery that was alltheir own—"Oh—Linford!"

CHAPTER XVII

For the Sake of Nancy

It was toward six o'clock when sheascended the steps of the rectory. Bernal,coming from the opposite direction, mether at the door. Back of his glance, as theycame together, was an intimation ofhidden things, and at sight of him she wassmitten by an electric flash of wonder.The voice of Wyeth, that friendly,untroubled voice, she now rememberedhad called to no specific Linford. In theparalysis of embarrassment that hadseized her in that darkened hallway, she

had failed to recall that there were at leasttwo Linfords in existence. In an instant herinner world, wrought into something likeorder in the past two hours, was againchaos.

"Why, Nance—you look like night, whenthere are no stars—what is it?" Hescanned her with an assumption of jestingearnestness, palpably meant to concealsome deeper emotion. She put a detaininghand on his arm as he was about to turnthe key in the lock.

"Bernal, I haven't time to be indirect, orbeat about, or anything—so forgive theabruptness—were you at Mrs. Wyeth'sthis afternoon?"

His ear caught the unusual note in hervoice, and he was at once concerned with

this rather than with her question.

"Why, what is it, Nance—what if I was?Are you seeing another Gratcher?"

"Bernal, quick, now—please! Don't worryme needlessly! Were you at Mrs. Wyeth'sto-day?"

Her eyes searched his face. She saw thathe was still either puzzled or confused,but this time he answered plainly,

"No—I haven't seen that most sightly coldlady to-day—more's the pity!"

She breathed one quick little sigh—itseemed to him strangely like a sigh ofrelief.

"I knew you couldn't have been." Shelaughed a little laugh of secrets. "I was

only wondering foolish wonders—youknow how Gratchers must be humouredright up to the very moment you puff themaway with the deadly laugh."

Together they went in. Bernal stopped totalk with Aunt Bell, who was passingthrough the hall as they entered; whileNancy, with the manner of one not to bedeflected from some set purpose, madestraight for Allan's study.

In answer to her ominously crisp littleknock, she heard his "Come!" and openedthe door.

He sat facing her at his desk, swingingidly from side to side in the revolvingchair, through the small space the deskpermitted. Upon the blotter before him shesaw that he had been drawing

interminable squares, oblongs, trianglesand circles, joining them to one another inaimless, wandering sequence—his sign ofa perturbed mind.

He glanced up with a look of waitingdefiance which she knew but masked allhis familiar artillery.

Instantly she determined to give him noopportunity to use this. She would endmatters with a rush. He was awaiting herattack. She would make none.

"I think there is nothing to say," she beganquickly. "I could utter certain words, butthey would mean one thing to me and otherthings to you—there is no realcommunication possible between us. Onlyremember that this—to-day—matters little—I had already resolved that sooner or

later I must go. This only makes itnecessary to go at once."

She turned to the door which she had heldajar. At her words he sat forward in hischair, the yellow stars blazing in his eyes.But the opening was not the one he hadcounted upon, and before he could alterhis speech to fit it, or could do more thanraise a hand to detain her, she had gone.

He sat back in his chair, calculating howto meet this mood. Then the doorresounded under a double knock andBernal came in.

"Well, old boy, I'll be off to-night. Thelawyer is done with me here and now I'llgo to Edom and finish what's to be donethere. Then in a few days I'll be out of thismachine and back to the ranche. You know

I've decided that my message to the worldwould best take the substantial form ofbeef—a message which no one willesteem unpractical."

He paused, noting the other's generaldroop of gloom.

"But what's the trouble, old chap? Youlook done up!"

"Bernal—it's all because I am too good-hearted, too unsuspecting. Being slow tothink evil of others, I foolishly assume thatothers will be equally charitable. And youdon't know what women are—you don'tknow how the sentimental ones imposeupon a man in my office. I give you myword of honour as a man—my word ofhonour, mind you!—there never has beena thing between us but the purest, the most

elevated— the loftiest, most ideal——"

"Hold on, old chap—I shall have to takethe car ahead, you know, if you won't letme on this one...."

"—as pure a woman as God ever made,while as for myself, I think my integrity ofpurpose and honesty of character, mysense of loyalty should be sufficientlyknown——"

"Say, old boy—" Bernal's face had lightedwith a sudden flash of insight—"is it—Idon't wish to be indiscreet— but is itanything about Mrs. Wyeth?"

"Then you do know?"

"Nothing, except that Nance met me at thedoor just now and puzzled me a bit by hervery curious manner of asking if I had

been at the Wyeth's this afternoon."

"What?" The other turned upon him, hiseyes again blazing with the yellow points,his whole figure alert. "She asked you that—Really?"

"To be sure!"

"And you said—"

"'No'—of course—and she mumbledsomething about having been foolish tothink I could have been. You know, oldman, Nance was troubled. I could seethat."

His brother was now pacing the floor, hishead bent from the beautifully squaredshoulders, his face the face of a mindworking busily.

"An idiot I was—she didn't know me—Ihad only to——"

Bernal interrupted.

"Are you talking to yourself, or to me?"

The rector of St. Antipas turned at one endof his walk.

"To both of us, brother. I tell you there hasbeen nothing between us—never anythingexcept the most flawless idealism. I admitthat at the moment Nancy observed us thecircumstances were unluckily such that anexcitable, morbidly suspicious womanmight have misconstrued them. I will evenadmit that a woman of judicial mind andof unhurried judgments might notunreasonably have been puzzled, but Iwould tear my heart open to the world this

minute—'Oh, be thou as chaste as ice, aspure as snow, thou shalt not escapecalumny!'"

"If I follow you, old chap, Nancyobserved some scene this afternoon inwhich it occurred to her that I might havebeen an actor." There was quick pain, asinking in his heart.

"She had reason to know it was one of us—and if I had denied it was I——"

"I see—why didn't you?"

"I thought she must surely have seen me—and besides"—his voice softened withaffection—"do you think, old chap, Iwould have shifted a misunderstandinglike that on to your shoulders. Thank God,I am not yet reduced to shirking the

penalties of my own blameless acts, evenwhen they will be cruelly misconstrued."

"But you should have done so—It wouldmean nothing to me, and everything to you—to that poor girl—poor Nance—alwaysso helpless and wondering and sopathetically ready to believe! She didn'tdeserve that you take it upon yourself,Allan!"

"No—no, don't urge! I may have mademistakes, though I will say that few men ofmy—well, my attractions! Why not say itbluntly?—few men of my attractions,placed as I have been, would have madeso few— but I shall never be foundshirking their consequences —it is not inmy nature, thank God, to let another bearthe burden—I can always be a man!——"

"But, old boy—you must think of poorNancy— not of me!" Again he felt the hurtof her suspicion.

"True—compassion requires that I think ofher rather than of my own pride—and Ihave—but, you see, it's too late. Icommitted myself before I knew she didn'tknow!"

"Let her believe it is still a mistake——"

"No, no—it would be trickery—and it'simpracticable —I as good as confessed toher, you see—unless "—he brightenedhere and stopped in his walk—"unless shecould be made to believe that I meant toshield you!"

"That's it! Really, you are an executor,Allan! Now we'll put the poor girl easy in

her mind again. I'll tell her you did it toshield me. You know it's important—whatNancy thinks of you, old chap— she's yourwife—and—it doesn't matter a bit howmeanly—she thinks of me—of course not.I dare say it will be better for me if shedoes think meanly of me— I'll tell her atonce—what was it I did?"

"No—no—she wouldn't believe you now.I dislike to say this, Bernal, but Nancy isnot always so trusting as a good womanshould be—she has a habit of wondering—but—mind you, I could only consent tothis for the sake of her peace of mind——"

"I understand perfectly, old chap—it willhelp the peace of mind of all of us, I beginto see—hers and mine—and yours."

"Well, then, if she can be made to suspectthis other aspect of the affair withoutbeing told directly—ah!— here's a way.Turn that messenger-call. Now listen— Iwill have a note sent here addressed toyou by a certain woman. It will be handedto Nancy to give to you. She will observethe writing—and she will recognise it,—she knows it. You will have been anxiousabout this note—expecting it—inquiringfor it, you know. Get your dinner now,then stay in your room so the maid won'tsee you when the note comes—she willhave to ask Nance where you are——"

At dinner, which Bernal had presentlywith Aunt Bell and two empty seats, hiscompanion regaled him with commentsupon the development of the religious

instinct in mankind, reminding him thatshould he ever aspire to a cult of his ownhe would find Boston a more fertile fieldthan New York.

"They're so much broader there, youknow," she began. "Really, they'll believeanything if you manage your effectsartistically. And that is the trouble withyou, Bernal. You appeal too little to theimagination. You must not only have anovelty to preach nowadays, but you mustpreach it in a spectacular manner. Now,that assertion of yours that we are allequally selfish is novel and ratherinteresting—I've tried to think of someone's doing some act to make himselfunhappy and I find I can't. And yoursuggestion of Judas Iscariot and Mr.

Spencer as the sole inmates of hell is notwithout a certain piquancy. But, my dearboy, you need a stage-manager. Let yourhair grow, wear a red robe, do healing——"

He laughed protestingly. "Oh, I'm not aprophet, Aunt Bell—I've learned that."

"But you could be, with proper managing.There's that perfectly stunning beginningwith that wild healing-chap in the farWest. As it is now, you make nothing of it—it might have happened to anybody andit never came to anything, except that youwent off into the wilderness and stayedalone. You should tell how you fastedwith him in a desert, and how he told yousecrets and imparted his healing power toyou. Then get the reporters about you and

talk queerly so that they can make a goodstory of it. Also live on rice and speakwith an accent—any kind of accent wouldmake you more interesting, Bernal. Thenpreach your message, and I'd guaranteeyou a following of thousands in New Yorkin a month. Of course they'd leave you forthe next fellow that came along with a keyto the book of Revelations, or a new dietor something, but you'd keep them awhile."

Aunt Bell paused, enthusiastic, butsomewhat out of breath.

"I'll quit, Aunt Bell—that's enough——"

"Mr. Spencer is an example for you.Contrast his hold on the masses with Mrs.Eddy's, who appeals to the imagination.I'm told by those who have read his works

that he had quite the knack of logic, andyet the President of Princeton TheologicalSeminary preaches a sermon in which hecalls him 'the greatest failure of the age.' Iread it in this morning's paper. His textwas, 'Ye believe in God, believe also inme.' You see, there was an appeal to theimagination—the most audacious appealthat the world has ever known —and thecrowd will be with this clergyman whouses it to refute the arguments of a manwho worked hard through forty years ofill-health to get at the mere dry common-sense of things. If Jesus had descended tologic, he'd never have made a convert. Buthe appealed magnificently to theimagination, and see the result!"

His mind had been dwelling on Allan's

trouble, but now he came back to hisgracious adviser.

"You do me good, Aunt Bell—you'vetaken all that message nonsense out of me.I suppose I could be one of them, youknow—one of those fellows that get intotrouble—if I saw it was needed; but itisn't. Let the men who can't help it do it—they have no choice. Hereafter I shallworry as little about the world's salvationas I do about my own."

When they had finished dinner he let it beknown that he was not a little anxiousconcerning a message that was late inarriving, and he made it a point, indeed,that the maid should advise Mrs. Linfordto this effect, with an inquiry whether shemight not have seen the delayed missive.

Then, after a word with Allan, he went tohis room and from his south windowsmoked into the night— smoked intosomething approaching quietude a mindthat had been rebelliously running back tothe bare-armed girl in dusky white—thewondering, waiting girl whose hand hadtrembled into his so long ago—so manyyears during which he had been adreaming fool, forgetting the world toworship certain impalpable gods ofidealism—forgetting a world in which itwas the divinely sensible custom to eatone's candy cane instead of preserving itsuperstitiously through barren years!

He knew that he had awakened too late formore than a fleeting vision of what wouldhave made his life full. Now he must be

off, up the path again, this time knowingcertainly that the woman would nevermore stand waiting and wondering at theend, to embitter his renunciations. Thewoman was definitely gone. That wassomething, even though she went with thatabsurd, unreasoning, womanish suspicion.And he had one free, dear look from her tokeep through the empty days.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Fell Finger of CalumnySeems to be Agreeably

Diverted

Shut in his study, the rector of St. Antipaspaced the floor with nicely measuredsteps, or sat at his desk to make endlesssquares, circles, and triangles. He wasengrossed in the latter diversion when heheard the bell sound below. He sat back tohear the steps of the maid, the opening ofthe door; then, after an interval, her stepsascending the stairs and stopping at his

own door; then her knock.

"A letter for Mr. Bernal, sir!"

He glanced at the envelope she held,noting its tint.

"He's not here Nora. Take it to Mrs.Linford. She will know where he is."

He heard her go down the hall and knockat another door. She was compelled toknock twice, and then there was delaybefore the door opened.

He drew some pages of manuscript beforehim and affected to be busy at a work ofrevision, crossing out a word here,interlining one there, scanning the resultwith undivided attention.

When he heard a knock he did not look up,

but said, "Come!" Though still intent at hiswork, he knew that Nancy stood there,looking from the letter to him.

"Nora said you sent this letter to me—it'sfor Bernal——"

He answered, still without looking up,

"I thought he might be with you, or that youmight know where he was."

"I don't."

He knew that she studied thesuperscription of the envelope.

"Well, leave it here on my desk till hecomes. I sent it to you only because Iheard him inquiring if a letter had notcome for him—he seemed rather anxiousabout some letter—troubled, in fact—

doubtless some business affair. I hopedthis might be what he was expecting."

His eyes were still on the page beforehim, and he crossed out a word and wroteanother above it, after a meditative pause.Still the woman at the door hesitated.

"Did you chance to notice the address onthe envelope?"

He glanced at her now for the first time,apparently in some surprise: "No—it isnot my custom to study addresses of lettersnot my own. Nora said it was for Bernaland he had seemed really distressed aboutsome letter or message that didn't come—if you will leave it here——"

"I wish to hand it to him myself."

"As you like." He returned to his work,

crossing out a whole line and a half withbroad, emphatic marks. Then he bentlower, and the interest in his page seemedto redouble, for he heard the door ofBernal's room open. Nancy called:

"Bernal!"

He came to the door where she stood andshe stepped a little inside so that he mightenter.

"I am anxious about a letter. Ah, you haveit!"

She was scanning him with a look thatwas acid to eat out any untruth in his face.

"Yes—it just came." She held it out tohim. He looked at the front of theenvelope, then up to her half-shut eagereyes—eyes curiously hardened now—then

he blushed flagrantly—a thorough, riotousblush—and reached for the letter with apitiful confusion of manner, not againraising his uneasy eyes to hers.

"I was expecting—looking—for amessage, you know—yes, yes—this is it—thank you very much, you know!"

He stammered, his confusion deepened.With the letter clutched eagerly in his handhe went out.

She looked after him, intently. When hehad shut his own door she glanced over atthe inattentive Allan, once more busy athis manuscript and apparently unconsciousof her presence.

A long time she stood in silence, trying tomoderate the beating of her heart. Once

she turned as if to go, but caught herselfand turned again to look at the bent headof Allan.

At last it seemed to her that she could trustherself to speak. Closing the door softly,she went to the big chair at the end of thedesk. As she let herself go into this with asudden joy in the strength of its supportingarms, her husband looked up at herinquiringly.

She did not speak, but returned his gaze;returned it, with such steadiness thatpresently he let his own eyes go downbefore hers with palpable confusion, as iffearing some secret might lie there plain toher view. His manner stimulated thesuspicion under which she now seemed tolabour.

"Allan, I must know something at oncevery clearly. It will make a mightydifference in your life and in mine."

"What is it you wish to know?" His glancewas oblique and his manner one ofdiscomfort, the embarrassed discomfort ofa man who fears that the real truth—thetruth he has generously striven to withhold—is at last to come out.

"That letter which Bernal was so troubledabout came from—from that woman—how could I avoid seeing that when it washanded to me? Did you know it, too?"

"Why, Nancy—I knew—of course—Iknew he expected—I mean the poor boytold me——" Here he broke off in thesame pitiful confusion that had markedBernal's manner at the door—the

confusion of apprehended deceit. Then hebegan again, as if with gathered wits—"What was I saying? I know nothingwhatever of Bernal's affairs or his letters.Really, how should I? You see, I havework on my mind." As if to cover hisawkwardness, he seized his pen andhastily began to cross out a phrase on thepage before him.

"Allan!" Though low, it was so near a crythat he looked up in what seemed to bealarm. She was leaning forward in thechair, one hand reaching toward him overthe desk, and she spoke rapidly.

"Allan, I find myself suspecting now thatyou tried to deceive me this afternoon—that Bernal did, also, incredible as itsounds—that you tried to take the blame of

that wretched thing off his shoulders. Thatletter to him indicates it, his own pitifulembarrassment just now—oh, an honestman wouldn't have looked as he did!—your own manner at this instant. You areboth trying—Oh, tell me the truth now!—you'll never dream how badly I need it,what it means to my whole life—tell me,Allan—for God's sake be honest thisinstant—my poor head is whirling with allthe lies! Let me feel there is truthsomewhere. Listen. I swear I'll stay by it,wherever it takes me—here or away fromhere—but I must have it. Oh, Allan, if itshould be in you, after all—Allan! dear,dear—Oh! I do see it now—you can'tdeceive—you can't deceive!"

Slowly at first his head bent under her

words, bent in cowardly evasion of hersharp glance, the sidelong shiftings of hiseyes portraying him, the generous liar,brought at last to bay by his own honestclumsiness. Then, as her appeal grewwarmer, tenderer, more insistent, the finehead was suddenly erected and proudconfession was written plainly over theglowing face— that beautiful contrition ofone who has willed to bear a brother'sshame and failed from lack of genius inthe devious ways of deceit.

Now he stood nobly from his chair andshe was up with a little loving rush to hisarms. Then, as he would have held herprotectingly, she gently pushed away.

"Don't—don't take me yet, dear—I shouldbe crying in another moment—I'm so—so

beaten—and I want not to cry till I've toldyou, oh, so many things! Sit again and letus talk calmly first. Now why—why didyou pretend this wretched thing?"

He faced her proudly, with the big, honest,clumsy dignity of a rugged man—and therewas a loving quiet in his tones thattouched her ineffably.

"Poor Bernal had told me his—hiscontretemps. The rest is simple. He is mybrother. The last I remember of our motheris her straining me to her poor breast andsaying, 'Oh, take care of little Bernal!'"Tears were glistening in his eyes.

"From the very freedom of the poor boy'stalk about religious matters, it is the moreurgent that his conduct be irreproachable.I could not bear that even you should think

a shameful thing of him."

She looked at him with swimming eyes,yet held her tears in check through the veryexcitement of this splendid newadmiration for him.

"But that was foolish—quixotic——"

"You will never know, little woman, whata brother's love is. Don't you rememberyears ago I told you that I would stand byBernal, come what might. Did you thinkthat was idle boasting?"

"But you were willing to have me suspectthat of you!"

He spoke with a sad, sweet gentlenessnow, as one might speak who had longsuffered hurts in secret.

"Dearest—dear little woman—I alreadyknew that I had been unable to retain yourlove—God knows I tried—but in someway I had proved unworthy of it. I hadcome to believe—painful and humiliatingthough that belief was—that you could notthink less of me— your words to-nightproved that I was right—you would havegone away, even without this. But at leastmy poor brother might still seem good toyou."

"Oh, you poor, foolish, foolish, man—Andyet, Allan, nothing less than this wouldhave shown you truly to me. I can speakplainly now—indeed I must, for once.Allan, you have ways—mannerisms—thatare unfortunate. They raised in me aconviction that you were not genuine—that

you were somehow false. Don't let it hurtnow, dear, for see—this one littleunstudied, impetuous act of devotion,simple and instinctive with your generousheart, has revealed your true self to me asnothing else could have done. Oh, don'tyou see how you have given me at lastwhat I had to have, if we were to live ontogether—something in you to hold to—afoundation to rest upon—something I canknow in my heart of hearts is stable—despite any outward, traitorous seeming!Now forever I can be loving, and loyal, inspite of all those signs which I see at lastare misleading."

Again and again she sought to envelopehim with acceptable praises, while hegazed fondly at her from that justified

pride in his own stanchness—murmuring,"Nance, you please me—you please me!"

"Don't you see, dear? I couldn't reach youbefore. You gave me nothing to believe in—not even God. That seeming lack ofgenuineness in you stifled my soul. I couldno longer even want to be good—and allthat for the lack of this dear foolish bit ofrealness in you."

"No one can know better than I that mynature is a faulty one, Nance——"

"Say unfortunate, Allan—not faulty. I shallnever again believe a fault of you. Howstupid a woman can be, how superficial inher judgments—and what stupids they arewho say she is intuitive! Do you know, Ibelieved in Bernal infinitely more than Ican tell you, and Bernal made me believe

in everything else—in God and goodnessand virtue and truth—in all the good thingswe like to believe in—yet see what hedid!"

"My dear, I know little of thecircumstances, but——"

"It isn't that—I can't judge him in that—but this I must judge—Bernal, when hesaw I did not know who had been there,was willing I should think it was you. Toretain my respect he was willing to betrayyou." She laughed, a little hard laugh, andseemed to be in pain. "You will neverknow just what the thought of that boy hasbeen to me all these years, and especiallythis last week. But now—poor weakBernal! Poor Judas, indeed!" There was akind of anguished bitterness in the last

words.

"My dear, try not to think harshly of thepoor boy," remonstrated Allan gently."Remember that whatever his mistakes, hehas a good heart—and he is my brother."

"Oh! you big, generous, good-thinkingboy, you— Can't you see that is preciselywhat he lacks—a good heart? Oh, dearest,I needed this—to show Bernal to me notless than to show you to me. There weregrave reasons why I needed to see youboth as I see you this moment."

There were steps along the hall and aknock at the door.

"It must be Bernal," he said—"he was toleave about this time."

"I can't see him again."

"Just this once, dear—for my sake!Come!"

Bernal stood in the doorway, hat in hand,his bag at his feet. With his hat he held aletter. Allan went forward to meet him.Nancy stood up to study the lines of anetching on the wall.

"I've come to say good-bye, you know."She heard the miserable embarrassment ofhis tones, and knew, though she did notglance at him, that there was a shamefuldroop to his whole figure.

Allan shook hands with him, first takingthe letter he held.

"Good-bye—old chap—God bless you!"

He muttered, with that wretchedconsciousness of guilt, something about

being sorry to go.

"And I don't want to preach, old chap,"continued Allan, giving the hand afarewell grip, "but remember there arealways two pairs of arms that will neverbe shut to you, the arms of the Church ofHim who died to save us,—and my ownpoor arms, hardly less loving."

"Thank you, old boy—I'll go back toHoover"— he looked hesitatingly at theprofile of Nancy—"Hoover thinks it's allrather droll, you know—Good-bye, oldboy! Good-bye, Nancy."

"My dear, Bernal is saying good-bye."

She turned and said "good-bye." Hestepped toward her—seeming to her toslink as he walked—but he held out his

hand and she gave him her own, cold, andunyielding. He went out, with a lastawkward "Good-bye, old chap!" to Allan.

Nancy turned to face her husband, puttingout her hands to him. He had removedfrom its envelope the letter Bernal had lefthim, and seemed about to put it ratherhastily into his pocket, but she seized itplayfully, not noting that his hand gave itup with a certain reluctance, her eyes uponhis face.

"No more business to-night—we have totalk. Oh, I must tell you so much that hastroubled me and made me doubt, my dear—and my poor mind has been up anddown like a see-saw. I wonder it's not awreck. Come, put away your business—there." She placed the letter and its

envelope on the desk.

"Now sit here while I tell you things."

An hour they were there, lingering in talk—talking in a circle; for at regularintervals Nancy must return to this: "Ibelieve no wife ever goes away until thereis absolutely no shred of possibility left—no last bit of realness to hold her. But nowI know your stanchness."

"Really, Nance—I can't tell you how muchyou please me."

There was a knock at the door. Theylooked at each other bewildered.

"The telephone, sir," said the maid inresponse to Allan's tardy "Come in."

When he had gone, whistling cheerily, she

walked nervously about the room,studying familiar objects from out of heranimated meditation.

Coming to his desk, she snuggledaffectionately into his chair and gazedfondly over its litter of papers. With alittle instinctive move to bring somewhatof order to the chaos, she reachedforward, but her elbow brushed to thefloor two or three letters that had lain atthe edge of the desk.

As she stooped to pick up the fallenpapers the letter Bernal had left lay openbefore her, a letter written in long,slanting but vividly legible characters.And then, quite before she recognisedwhat letter it was, or could feel curiousconcerning it, the first illuminating line of

it had flashed irrevocably to her mind'scentre.

When Allan appeared in the doorway afew minutes later, she was standing by thedesk. She held the letter in both hands andover it her eyes flamed—blasted.

Divining what she had done, his mind ranwith lightning quickness to face this newemergency. But he was puzzled andhelpless, for now her hands fell and shelaughed weakly, almost hysterically. Hesearched for the key to this unnaturalbehaviour. He began, hesitatingly,expecting some word from her to guidehim along the proper line of defense.

"I am sure, my dear—if you had only—only trusted me—implicitly—youropinion of this affair——"

At the sound of his voice she ceased tolaugh, stiffening into a wild, grimintensity.

"Now I can look that thing straight in theeyes and it can't hurt me."

"In the eyes?" he questioned, blankly.

"I can go now."

"You will make me the laughing-stock ofthis town!"

For the first time in their life togetherthere was the heat of real anger in hisvoice. Yet she did not seem to hear.

"Yes—that last terrible Gratcher can't hurtme now."

He frowned, with a sulky assumption ofthat dignity which he felt was demanded

of him.

"I don't understand you!"

Still the unseeing eyes played about him,yet she heard at last.

" B u t he will—he will!" she criedexultingly, and her eyes were wet with anunexplained gladness.

CHAPTER XIX

A Mere Bit of Gossip

The Ministers' Meeting of the followingTuesday was pleasantly enlivened withgossip—retained, of course, withinseemly bounds. There was absent theReverend Dr. Linford, sometime rector ofSt. Antipas, said lately to have emergedfrom a state of spiritual chrysalis into aworld made new with truths that were yetold. It was concerning this circumstancethat discreet expressions were oftenestheard during the function.

One brother declared that the Linfords

were both extremists: one with hisabsurdly radical disbelief in revealedreligion; the other flying at last to theMother Church for that authority which heprofessed not to find in his own.

Another asserted that in talking with Dr.Linford now, one brought away the notionthat in renouncing his allegiance to theEpiscopal faith he had gone to the extremeof renouncing marriage, in order that theMother Church might become his onlybride. True, Linford said nothing at alllike this;—the idea was fleeting, filmy,traceable to no specific words of his. Yetit left a track across the mind. It seemed tobe the very spirit of his speech upon thesubject. Certainly no other reason hadbeen suggested for the regrettable,

severance of this domestic tie. Conjecturewas futile and Mrs. Linford, secluded inher country home at Edom, had steadfastlyrefused, so said the public prints, to giveany reason whatsoever.

His soup finished, the Reverend Mr.Whittaker unfolded the early edition of anevening paper to a page which bore anexcellent likeness of Dr. Linford.

"I'll read you some things from his letter,"he said, "though I'll confess I don't whollyapprove his taste in giving it to the press.However—here's one bit:

"'When I was ordained a priest in theEpiscopal Church I dreamed of wieldingan influence that would tend to harmonisethe conflicting schools of churchmanship.It seemed to me that my little life might be

of value, as I comprehended the essentialsof church citizenship. I will not dwellupon my difficulties. The present is notime to murmur. Suffice it to say, I havelong held, I have taught, nearly everyCatholic doctrine not actually denied bythe Anglican formularies; and I haveaccepted and revived in St. Antipas everyCatholic practice not positively forbidden.

"But I have lately become convinced thatthe Anglican orders of the ministry areinvalid. I am persuaded that a priestordained into the Episcopal Church cannotconsecrate the elements of the Eucharist ina sacrificial sense. Could I be less thantrue to my inner faith in a matter touchingthe sacred verity of the Real Presence—the actual body and blood of our Saviour?

"After conflict and prayer I have gonetrustingly whither God has been pleased tolead me. In my humble sight the onlyspiritual body that actually claims to teachtruth upon authority, the only bodydivinely protected from teaching error, isthe Holy, Catholic and Roman Church.

"For the last time I have exercised myprivate judgment, as every man mustexercise it once, at least, and I now seekcommunion with this largest and oldestbody of Christians in the world. I havefaced an emergency fraught with vitalinterest to every thinking man. I have metit; the rest is with my God. Praying that Imight be adorned with the splendours ofholiness, and knowing that the prayer ofhim that humbleth himself shall pierce the

clouds, I took for my motto this sentencefrom Huxley: 'Sit down before fact as alittle child; be prepared to give up everypreconceived notion; follow humblywherever and to whatever abysses Natureleads.' Presently, God willing, I shall bein communion with the See of Rome,where I feel that there is a future for me!"

The reader had been absently stabbing athis fish with an aimless fork. He now laiddown his paper to give the food his entireattention.

"You see," began Floud, "I say onebrother is quite as extreme as the other."

Father Riley smiled affably, and beggedWhittaker to finish the letter.

"Your fish is fresh, dear man, but your

news may be stale before we reach it—sohasten now—I've a presentiment that ourfriend goes still farther afield."

Whittaker abandoned his fish with a lastthoughtful look, and resumed the reading.

"May I conclude by reminding you that theissue between Christianity and sciencefalsely so called has never been enoughsimplified? Christianity rests squarely onthe Fall of man. Deny the truth of Genesisand the whole edifice of our faithcrumbles. If we be not under the curse ofGod for Adam's sin, there was never aneed for a Saviour, the Incarnation and theAtonement become meaningless, and ourLord is reduced to the status of a humanteacher of a disputable philosophy—apeasant moralist with certain delusions of

grandeur—an agitator and heretic whomthe authorities of his time executed forstirring up the people. In short, the divinityof Jesus must stand or fall with thedivinity of the God of Moses, and this inturn rests upon the historical truth ofGenesis. If the Fall of man be successfullydisputed, the God of Moses becomes afigment of the Jewish imagination—Jesusbecomes man. And this is what Scienceasserts, while we of the outer churches,through cowardice or indolence—toooften, alas! through our own skepticism—have allowed Science thus to obscure theissue. We have fatuously thought tosurrender the sin of Adam, and still tokeep a Saviour —not perceiving that wemust keep both or neither.

"There is the issue. The Church says thatman is born under the curse of God and soremains until redeemed, through thesacraments of the Church, by the blood ofGod's only begotten Son.

"Science says man is not fallen, but hasrisen steadily from remote brute ancestors.If science be right— and by mereevidence its contention is plausible—thenoriginal sin is a figment and natural man isa glorious triumph over brutehood, notonly requiring no saviour —since he isunder no curse of God—but having everyreason to believe that the divine favourhas ever attended him in his upward trend.

"But if one finds mere evidenceinsufficient to outweigh that most gloriousdeath on Calvary, if one regards that

crucifixion as a tear of faith on the world'scold cheek of doubt to make it burnforever, then one must turn to the onlychurch that safeguards this rock ofOriginal Sin upon which the Christ isbuilded. For the ramparts of Protestantismare honeycombed with infidelity—andwhat is most saddening, they are givingway to blows from within. Protestantismneed no longer fear the onslaughts ofatheistic outlaws: what concerns it is thefact that the stronghold of destructivecriticism is now within its own ranks—astronghold manned by teachersprofessedly orthodox.

"It need cause little wonder, then, that Ihave found safety in the Mother Church.Only there is one compelled by adequate

authority to believe. There alone does itseem to be divined that Christianity cannotrelinquish the first of its dogmas withoutinvalidating those that rest upon it.

"For another vital matter, only in theCatholic Church do I find combated withuncompromising boldness that peculiarlymodern and vicious sentimentality whichis preached as 'universal brotherhood.' Itis a doctrine spreading insidiously amongthe godless masses outside the trueChurch, a chimera of visionaries whomust be admitted to be dishonest, sinceagain and again has it been pointed out tothem that their doctrine is unchristian—impiously and preposterously unchristian.Witness the very late utterance of HisHoliness, Pope Pius X, as to God's divine

ordinance of prince and subject, noble andplebeian, master and proletariat, learnedand ignorant, all united, indeed, but not inmaterial equality—only in the bonds oflove to help one another attain their moralwelfare on earth and their last end inheaven. Most pointedly does his Holinessfurther rebuke this effeminacy of universalbrotherhood by stating that equality existsamong the social members only in this:that all men have their origin in God theCreator, have sinned in Adam, and havebeen equally redeemed into eternal life bythe sacrifice of our Lord.

"Upon these two rocks—of original sinand of prince and subject, riches andpoverty—by divine right, the CatholicChurch has taken its stand; and within this

church will the final battle be fought onthese issues. Thank God He has found myhumble self worthy to fight upon His sideagainst the hordes of infidelity and thepreachers of an unchristian socialequality!"

There were little exclamations about thetable as Whittaker finished and returned atlast to his fish. To Father Riley it occurredthat these would have been morecommunicative, more sentient, but for hispresence. In fact, there presently ensuedan eloquent silence in lieu of remarks thatmight too easily have been indiscreet.

"Pray, never mind me at all, gentlemen—I'll listen blandly whilst I disarticulate thisbeautiful bird."

"I say one is quite as extreme as the

other," again declared the discoverer ofthis fact, feeling that his perspicacity hadnot been sufficiently remarked.

"I dare say Whittaker is meditating a bittercynicism," suggested Father Riley.

"Concerning that incandescent butunfortunate young man," remarked theamiable Presbyterian—"I trust God'sProvidence to care for children and fools—"

"And yet I found his remarks suggestive,"said the twinkling-eyed Methodist. "Thatis, we asked for the belief of the averagenon-church-goer—and I dare say he gaveit to us. It occurs to me further that he hasmerely had the wit to put in blunt, brutalwords what so many of us declare withacademic flourishes. We can all name a

dozen treatises written by theologiansostensibly orthodox which actually justifyhis utterances. It seems to me, then, thatwe may profit by his blasphemies."

"How?" demanded Whittaker, with somebluntness.

"Ah—that is what the Church mustdetermine. We already know how to reachthe heathen, the unbookish, the unthinking—but how reach the educated—thescience-bitten? It is useless to deny thatthe brightest, biggest minds are outside theChurch—indifferentists or downrightopponents of it. I am not willing to believethat God meant men like these to perish—Idon't like to think of Emerson being lost,or Huxley, or Spencer, or even Darwin—Question: has the Church power to save

the educated?"

"Sure, I know one that has never lackedit," purled Father Riley.

"There's an answer to you in Linford'sletter," added Whittaker.

"Gentlemen, you jest with me—but I shallcontinue to feel grateful to our slightlydogmatic young friend for his artlessbrutalities. Now I know what the businessman keeps to himself when I ask him whyhe has lost interest in the church."

"There's a large class we can't take fromyou," said Father Riley—"that class withwhom religion is a mode ofrespectability."

"And you can't take our higher critics,either— more's the pity!"

"On my word, now, gentlemen," returnedthe Catholic, again, "that was a dear,blasphemous young whelp! You know, Irather liked him. Bless the soul of you, Icould as little have rebuked the lad as Icould punish the guiltless indecence of ababe—he was that shockingly naïf!"

"He is undoubtedly the just fruit of ourown toleration," repeated the high-churchrector.

"And he stands for our knottiest problem,"said the Presbyterian.

"A problem all the knottier, I suspect,"began Whittaker—

"Didn't I tell you?" interrupted FatherRiley. "Oh, the outrageous cynic! Bebraced for him, now!"

"I was only going to suggest," resumed thewicked Unitarian, calmly, "that thosepeople, Linford and his brother—and eventhat singularly effective Mrs. Linford, withher inferable views about divorce—youknow I dare say that they—really youknow—that they possess the courage of——"

" T he i r convictions!" concluded littleFloud, impatient alike of the speaker'shesitation and the expected platitude.

"No—I was about to say—the courage—of ours."

A few looked politely blank at thisunseasonable flippancy. Father Rileysmiled with rare sweetness andmurmured, "So cynical, even for aUnitarian!" as if to himself in playful

confidence.

But the amiable Presbyterian, of thecheerful auburn beard and the salient nose,hereupon led them tactfully to safe groundin a discussion of the ethnic Trinities.

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